"Answer, dear," he said, with the same gentleness. "Let me hear you answer."
"Very well," she returned, like a gentle child. "Shall I go now, Osmond?"
He led her to the door, opened it, and closed it after her. Then he glanced at his adversary. MacLeod had sunk into a chair and was sitting astride it, his chin bowed upon its back. He looked terror-stricken. One hand held a little box, and he was tendering it to Osmond.
"Open it," he gasped. "Crush one in your handkerchief. Let me smell it."
Osmond ignorantly but deftly did it, and held the handkerchief to MacLeod's face. MacLeod breathed at it greedily. He lifted his left hand as if it were half useless to him. "Rub it," he said savagely. "Wring it off. Such pain! my God, such pain!"
In a moment more the attack was over, and he looked like an old man, inexplicably ravaged. Osmond's question sprang impetuously.
"Is it—excitement?"
MacLeod smiled a little and moistened his lips.
"You think you did it?" he suggested. "No. You didn't do it. It comes—of itself—like a thief in the night, like the very devil. Nobody's to know it. Understand that."
"Then you need her with you!" Osmond broke out, in a fresh understanding.