"Then get it where you got that."
"I cannot. I got that when it was easier to smile, and dancing was not followed by dreadful pain. Now—" She tried to laugh as she had a few moments before, but her jocund mood had passed. One would never imagine from her present aspect that she had just floated through the room an embodiment of joyousness and grace.
"You gave it all to him, all?" I questioned.
The emphasis did not strike her, or rather it assumed a different place in her mind than on my lips. "To him?" she repeated, shrinking back with evident distrust.
"Yes," I pursued, following her and speaking in her ear; "the sailor lad who took it away from here that night. Poison—prussic acid—a phial you could hide in your hand."
She broke into laughter, not the expression of joy, but that of defiance if not derision. She was but a common woman now.
"Sailor lad!" she repeated, and laughed again.
I felt that the moment had come for speaking the significant word. Looking around and seeing that Mother Merry was not too near, I whispered:
"A sailor lad with a gentleman's name. You know the name; so do I—Leighton Gillespie."
She had not expected me to go so far. Smothering a frightened cry, she struck her hands together over her head and dashed towards the door by which she had come in. Mother Merry stood before it laughing. Then she turned to escape by the street; but there she was confronted by the heavy form of the policeman, who had thrust himself across the threshold. Crouching, she folded her arms over her breast and made a plunge for the door communicating with the den beyond. It opened under her pressure and she fell gasping and bruised upon the threshold. I hastened to her aid, but she was up before I could reach her.