A dry shudder was her only answer.
"Can't you tell me?" he urged, "I may be able to pull you through. Anyway, my cousin will. I hate to see you like this." She was still sobbing hysterically. "Don't look at me, but imagine I'm another woman—who just wants to do you a good turn."
Suddenly he remembered her story; here was the so-called "sponge" in desperate trouble, and possibly at the end of her resources. Although they had been nearly a month in the same house, they had but scant acquaintance. Miss Sim did not ride, play bridge, or take any part in social activities; if Mallender ever thought of her, it was as a colourless young woman, with anxious eyes, who seemed only too thankful to be ignored, and overlooked. He had noticed her motoring with Fanny, and helping her with notes, and menu cards. Fred, too, talked, played tennis, and danced with her, but to most of their other guests Miss Sim was as a ghost. Mrs. Villars recognised her existence so far as to make use of her and send her messages; whilst Mrs. Wylie ridiculed her openly, and treated her as if she were a servant.
"In the first place, hand me over that little bottle," he went on authoritatively.
No answer beyond a subdued weeping and choking.
"If you don't, I shall have to take it from you."
Moved by this threat, she slowly unclosed her limp fingers, and he promptly possessed himself of a tiny blue phial, on which was scrawled:
"Poysun—fur dog."
"Now," said Mallender as he crossed his legs, and looked at her sternly, "I insist on your telling me what this means?" He realised, that he must adopt a determined attitude, with this miserable weeping creature. "Come, now."
"Oh, it's a long, long story," she moaned, "and I've been such a fool!"