"How pale you are, poor dear!" he said. "And why do you write me such dreadful things?"
"I wanted," she began in a low voice, "to tell you, Dale, that I did try, that I really did try, to call out. I did not forsake you without trying."
"What do you mean, darling? How have you forsaken me?"
"When he caught hold of me, there was plenty of time to call out. I might have warned you—I might have warned you. I might have done what she did. But I couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't. I was afraid. He said he would blow my head to bits. I was afraid, and I left her to save you."
"My dearest girl," he said, taking her hand, "you did the only thing. If you had cried out, he would have murdered you first and me afterward; all the chambers of the revolver were loaded. I would have died a thousand times sooner than have one of your dear hairs roughened; but, as it was, your death wouldn't have saved me."
She had looked at him for a moment as if with sudden hope, but, as he finished, she shook her head and said:
"I didn't think anything about that. I was just afraid, and I should have let you be killed."
"My sweet, who ever expected you to condemn yourself to certain death on the chance of saving me? It would be monstrous!"
"She did it," said Janet in low tones.
Dale paused for a minute.