"Where am I? Have I been ill—ah——." She drew a deep breath. "I remember. Are we safe? Why don't we go? What are we staying for?"
She raised herself on her elbow, and half sat up, pushing the black hair from her face and passing her hand across her eyes. Then she looked down and saw the locket, and her hand flew to it.
Leslie's eyes followed the hand.
"Whose—whose portrait is that?" she asked almost inaudibly.
The woman looked at her, and a dull red stole into her face.
"What's that to you?" she retorted, half defiantly. "You've looked at it, haven't you?"
Leslie moistened her lips; they were so hot and dry that she could scarcely speak.
"Yes, I have looked at it," she said. "I know——."
"You know who it is?" As she spoke she closed the locket hurriedly, and buttoned her dress over it. "You know—. Who are you? What is your name?" And the dark eyes scanned Leslie's pale face with suspicious scrutiny.
"My name is Leslie, Leslie Lisle," said Leslie slowly.