“Yes, yes,” soothed Mr. Foster. “Quite, quite. Well, I’m glad you’ve got away, I must say. I thought at the time you had no business to be mixed up with that sort of thing. Far too pretty and charming, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”
“Oh, Mr. Foster,” simpered his companion.
Mr. Foster swelled a little further. “That’s all right, then. Now, you stay here, my dear, all snug and safe, and I’ll run along and telephone to the police; and then——”
“The police? But why?”
“To let them know you’re here. Don’t you realise that you’re a most valuable witness? With your evidence we ought to be able to lay these scoundrels by the heels.”
“No, that’s quite impossible. I may be a valuable witness, but I’d be a still more valuable capture. Don’t you understand that the police are after me, just as much as the rest of the gang? I’m—I’m wanted on scores of charges. That was only one murder I committed; there are ever so many others. If you tell the police I’m here, you put a rope round my neck, Mr. Foster, as sure as you’re standing on a rake.”
Mr. Foster moved automatically off the rake. His eyes were fixed on his companion’s face in an expression in which horror and delight struggled for supremacy. “Did you say that—that you murd—killed that man the other night?” he articulated.
Dora hung her head. “Yes,” she whispered.
A faint gasp emanated from Mr. Foster.
Dora raised her face somewhat wildly. “But it wasn’t my fault! Don’t think that. I was forced into it. They had a hold over me—a terrible hold. It was something to do with—with my mother. Oh, Mr. Foster, there is nothing a girl won’t do for her mother. I had to do as they wished. I had to carry out their assassinations for them, or see my mother reduced to penury and disgrace. I couldn’t face it! I—I gave way. Was it very wrong of me?”