Part 57 (2/2)
”You no doubt thought her still full of confidence and as easily flattered as ever.”
”Well, yes, I did think perhaps she was as lovable as ever, and to tell the truth I was a little homesick to see her and I thought perhaps she would overlook my leaving her as I did, for she did love me to distraction.”
”Where have you left Irene Wilmer?”
Max started as though he would spring from his bed, but Miss Elsworth gently moved him back.
”What do you know of Irene Wilmer?” he asked.
”I know she is one of your victims, as is also Bessie Graves, and I ask you where you left her.”
”I left her out west, some time ago.”
”Do you know where she is now?”
”No, I can't say that I do.”
”I can tell you.”
”Where is she?”
”Dead,” Miss Elsworth answered, in a low voice.
”Dead, Irene dead,” he repeated.
”Yes, she is dead.”
”Tell me, where did she die?”
”With her husband.”
”Scott Wilmer?”
”Yes.”
”Did he take her back to his home?”
”Yes, and cared for her during her sickness, as tenderly as though she had never disgraced him.”
”Well, I must say, he has a mighty sight softer head than ever I would have had. I don't believe any woman could fool me that way.”
”Why did you entice her away from her home and a man who loved her?”
”Why, if you ever saw her you must know she was a mighty pretty woman, and if she fancied me more than she did Wilmer it was no fault of mine.”
Blanche turned from the man in disgust. She left the room, and walked out to breathe the fresh air. Mrs. Morris, worn out with watching at the bedside of her son, was sleeping soundly in her room upstairs. Max lay with his eyes fixed upon the wall, seemingly buried in his own reflections. A shadow darkened the doorway, and, turning his eyes, Max beheld Bessie gliding stealthily toward him. Her dusky hair hung like a midnight cloud around her sloping shoulders, and contrasted strangely with the marble whiteness of her lovely face. The wild gleam in her blue eyes had given place to a soft look of tender pity.
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