"Yes, yes!" she gasped. "I know you. I—I——Oh, Blair, don't kill me!"
"Kill you!" he exclaimed, with astonishment. "Why, Lottie, what is the matter with you?"
He took her arm as he spoke and drew it through his.
"You look ill. Lean on me. Don't be afraid."
She tore her arm from his and, shrinking back, leaned against the lamp-post, the light flashing on her face and revealing it in all its haggardness.
"Don't!—don't!" she said, with a catch in her breath. "Don't speak a kind word to me; I don't deserve it! Oh, Blair, if you knew all I've done——"
He sighed.
"Never mind, Lottie," he said, gently; "I'm afraid we have all done rather badly. But I'm sorry to see you looking so ill. Where are you staying? What made you come here? Come, tell me all about it."
"I can't! I can't!" she said, with a shudder and a fearful glance at his grave face. "I came here with a theatrical company—I got ill, and left behind. I wrote to him and asked for help, and he only threatened me——"
"Him! Who?" demanded Blair soothingly, for he began to think that illness and privation had turned poor Lottie's reason.