Part 3 (2/2)

”When you're steady you can go. Mr. Thorne will telephone for a cab and I will take you--home.”

”Oh no!” The girl's face became the pallor that frightens, and on either side of her a hand was dug in the couch on which she was sitting. ”I'm all right now. I don't want a cab. I just want to go, and by myself. Please let me go!”

The last words were lost in a sob, and coming close to her I sat beside her, and, putting my hand on her face, turned it slightly that I might better see the big, black bruise on her forehead, partly hidden by the loose, dark curls which fell across it. Her hair was short and thick and parted on the side, giving her a youthful, boyish look that was in odd contrast to the sudden terror in her eyes, and for the first time I saw how slight and frail she was, saw that about her which baffled and puzzled me, and which I could not a.n.a.lyze. She wore no hat, and the red scarf around her neck was the only touch of color in her otherwise dark dress. The lips of her large, sweet, sensuous mouth were as colorless as her face.

”You have been hurt.” I put my hand on her trembling ones. ”Did some one strike you or did you fall?”

She shook her head and drew her hands away. ”I wasn't hurt. I--I slipped and fell and struck my head on the pavement. Don't let anybody telephone. I can go alone. Please--please let me go! I must go! I can't stay here.”

”But you mustn't go alone.” I turned to Selwyn. ”Mr. Thorne will go with you. Do you live far from here?”

”Not very. It's close enough for me to go by myself. He mustn't go with me.” The words came stumblingly, and again I saw the quick, frightened look she gave Selwyn, a look in which was indecision and appeal, as well as fear, and I saw, too, that his face flushed as he turned away.

With quick movement the girl got up. From her throat came a sound hysterical and choking, and, putting her hand to it, she looked first at me and then at Mrs. Mundy, but at Selwyn she did not look again.

”I'm going. Thank you for letting me come in.” Blindly she staggered to the door, her hands outstretched as if to feel what she could not see. At it she turned and in her face was that which keeps me awake at night, which haunts and hurts and seems to be crying to me to do something which I know not how to do.

”You poor child!” I started toward her. ”You must not go alone.”

But before I could reach her she fell in a heap at the door, and as one dead she lay limp and white and piteously pretty on the floor.

CHAPTER VI

I don't understand Mrs. Mundy. She acts so queerly about the girl we found on the street last night. She put her to bed, after she had recovered from her fainting spell, on a cot in the room next to her own, but this morning she told me the girl had gone, and would tell me nothing else.

When Selwyn, who had picked her up and laid her on the couch, asked if he should not get a doctor, Mrs. Mundy had said no, and said it so positively that he offered to do nothing else. And then she thanked him and told him good night in such a way he understood it was best he Should go.

At the front door he called me. With his back to it he held out his hands, took mine in his, crushed them in clasp so close they hurt.

”Danny,” he said, ”why do you torment me so? You don't know what you're doing, living where such things are possible as have taken place tonight; where any time you may be--”

His voice broke, and in amazement I looked at him. Horror and fear were in his face.

”Do you think it is so awful a thing to see a poor little creature who has been hurt and needs help?” I drew my hands away. ”You talk as if I were a child, Selwyn.”

”You are a child in your knowledge of--of certain phases of life. If I could only marry you tomorrow and take you away from here you should never know them!”

”Well, you can't marry me to-morrow!” I made effort to laugh, but Selwyn's face, his manner, frightened me. ”I want to stay down here and--and stop being as ignorant as a child of things women should know. Behind the shelter of ignorance most women have already s.h.i.+rked too long.” I held out my hand, ”If you stay a bit longer, Selwyn, I'll say things I shouldn't. Goodnight.”

With a shrug of his shoulders he went down the steps, and as I watched him, for a moment I felt tempted to call him back. It was not unusual for us to part indignant with each other. We invariably clashed, disagreed, and argued hotly if we got on certain subjects, but to-night I did not want him to leave angrily. Something had made me afraid and uncertain and uneasy. I could not define, could only feel it, and if Selwyn should fail me-- s.h.i.+vering, I stood in the doorway, and as I started to go in I noticed a young fellow across the street under a tree, who seemed to be watching the house. He was evidently nervous and moved restlessly in the small circle of the shadow cast by the bare branches. Selwyn apparently did not see him, and, crossing the street, was close upon him before he knew he was there. To my astonishment I saw him start and stop, saw him take the man by the arm.

”What in the name of Heaven--” In the still, cold air I could hear distinctly. ”Why are you down here this time of night? Where are you going?”

If there was answer I could not hear it, but I could see the movement of the young man's shoulders, could see him draw away and turn his back to Selwyn. Putting his hands in his pockets, he started toward the corner lighted by the flickering gas-jet, then turned and walked to the one on which there was no light. Had I known him, I could not have recognized him in the darkness, but he was evidently well known to Selwyn, for together they went down the street and out of sight.

I wonder who he was.

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