“It would not benefit you if I were to tell you,” he answered.
“But I can guess. I think I know whom you mean.”
“Do you? Please to say then.”
“Her name is Stanbridge.”
The old man nodded and pored over his book.
“Am I right?” she inquired.
“Be silent!” he cried, “Have you no wounds in your heart which words will open? Be silent, my friend, and listen to your woes which are kindred to my own.”
He opened the book. She shuddered. There were pages of writing, and the letters were all red.
“You need not be under any apprehension,” said her companion. “I am not likely to do you or anybody else any harm, although my ways are not altogether like the ways of other men.”
He turned to a particular page in the book.