"Don't talk nonsense," he snapped. "Love is nothing to me. I hate the word. You might as well talk of loving the Monument as me."
"You lifted me up," she cried. "You saved my soul and body. I was lower than any of the others before you came. You taught me—and I've tried to learn your lessons. But, oh, if you didn't mean me to love you, you should have left me where I was."
"You were a good girl," he said, with tired tolerance. "You learnt well. But I didn't mean you to love me. I don't want you to love me. What I have done for you was only part of my work—like the others. I don't want any woman to love me. I tell you, I hate the word. It means nothing to me. I only want to go on...."
Her sobs ceased. She stood very still. Her face was torn, but he was not looking at her. She turned, and went slowly towards the door, her head bowed. She seemed to be shrunken and small. All her vitality had gone. She moved like an old woman, weakly.
The door opened before she reached it. Two men stood in the passage. She started back. One of them came a few paces into the room, looking at the man in the chair.
"Mr. James Layton?"
He rose unsteadily.
"Yes," he said, "I am James Layton. What do you want?"
"We are police officers, investigating the murder of Miss Christine Manderson."
The girl uttered a cry, and sprang between them.