"Help!" she cried recklessly. "No, you can't help. Nobody can help. It's too late for anyone to help now."
The girl raised her head with a start.
"Too late! Maggie, you mean——?"
"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Dennison, and then her eager cry died swiftly away.
Why protest in horror? By no grace of hers was it that it was not too late. The girl's eyes were on her, and she stammered,
"I mean nothing—nothing. Yes, you must go. I hate—no, no! Marjory, don't push me away! Let me touch you! There's no reason I shouldn't touch you. I mean, I love you, but—I can't have you here."
"Why not?" came from the girl in slow, strong tones.
A moment later, she sprang to her feet, her eyes full of new horror, as the vague suspicion grew to a strange undoubting certainty.
"Who was it in the garden? Who was out there? Maggie, if I hadn't——?"
She could not end. On the last words her voice sank to a fearful whisper; when she had uttered them—with their unfinished, yet plain and naked, question—she hid her face in her hands, listening for the answer.