She moved a little so as to read his face,
but when he turned again and answered her stare she winced. "Not very
long, Pierre."
"Ah," he said. "I see! It was because she didn't dream that this was
the place I lived in."
It was the sort of heartless, torturing questioning which was once the
crudest weapon of the inquisition. With all her heart she fought to
raise her voice above the whisper whose very sound accused her, but
could not. She was condemned to that voice as the man bound in
nightmare is condemned to walk slowly, slowly, though the terrible
danger is racing toward him, and the safety which he must reach lies
only a dozen steps, a dozen mortal steps away.
She said in that voice: "No; of course she didn't dream it."
"And you, Jack, had her interests at heart--her best interests, poor
girl, and didn't tell her?"
Her hands went out to him in mute appeal.
"Please, Pierre--don't!"
"Is something troubling you, Jack?"
"You are breaking my heart."
"Why, by no means! Let's sit here calmly and chat about the girl with
the yellow hair.
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282