She took a step or two inside. Fyfe did not hear her; he did not look up.
"Jack."
He gave ever so slight a start, glanced up, stood with head thrown back a little. But he did not move, or answer, and Stella, looking at him, seeing the flame that glowed in his eyes, could not speak. Something seemed to choke her, something that was a strange compound of relief and bewilderment and a slow wonder at herself,—at the queer, unsteady pounding of her heart.
"How did you get way up here?" he asked at last.
"Linda wired last night that Charlie was hurt. I got a machine to the Springs. Then Barlow came down this afternoon looking for you. He said you'd been missing for two days. So I—I—"
She broke off. Fyfe was walking toward her with that peculiar, lightfooted step of his, a queer, tense look on his face.
"Nero fiddled when Rome was burning," he said harshly. "Did you come to sing while my Rome goes up in smoke?"
A little, half-strangled sob escaped her. She turned to go. But he caught her by the arm.
"There, lady," he said, with a swift change of tone, "I didn't mean to slash at you. I suppose you mean all right. But just now, with everything gone to the devil, to look up and see you here—I've really got an ugly temper, Stella, and it's pretty near the surface these days. I don't want to be pitied and sympathized with. I want to fight. I want to hurt somebody."
"Hurt me then," she cried.