“Great God!” cried Ned, striking in in sheer amazement. “And these were they upon whom you allowed suspicion of the murder to rest, whom the merest chance saved from suffering the consequences of a crime of which you alone were guilty!”
“But, monsieur—oh, monsieur, I knew, when the cry rose, that they were gone from the neighbourhood. And, indeed, they are always so execrated that it could make no difference.”
Ned sank back in his chair.
“Well?” he said, with a veritable groan.
“I went with them; and we were long, long by the way; and on the way the woman also died. I think it was of nothing less than starvation. Then the man and I came on alone to Paris, and Théroigne met us, and took me from him.”
“And the woman died of want, and it never occurred to you that you were a burden on those whom you had—oh, God, how to unravel this warp! Hold your tongue, Nicette! Let there be silence between us, in pity’s name!”
She shrunk down as if she had been struck. Her confidences, it seemed, were of no avail to move him.
But presently he spoke again—
“Why, last night—when I accused you before the woman, your friend—did you not give me the lie? She would have taken your word before mine.”
And she answered, in the very voice of desolation—