“I deny that I am in love with her, but what makes you think so?”
“She thinks so.”
“Then you come directly from her?”
He had been unable to keep back the eagerness from his voice. Instantly he realized his indiscretion. Pulling up a chair, he seated himself opposite her, that he might lose nothing of her changes of expression.
“You're the second unconventional visitor,” he said, “whom I've received this evening. The object of both your visits seems to be the same—to associate my name with that of a lady to whom I am comparatively a stranger. We may have conversed together a couple of dozen times; when we parted, I never expected to hear from her. Within the space of twenty-four hours a man who claims to be her husband comes to me accusing her of every infamy. No sooner has the door closed behind him than you enter, asserting that I am in love with her. You must pardon me if I begin to suspect a plot. For all I know, you may be my first visitor's accomplice, employing a more disarming method to get me to commit myself. You tell me you are Santa Gorlof's friend; you might equally well say you are her grandmother—you offer me no proof. If she's really in trouble, I'm sorry. But I fail to see any way in which I can serve her.”
“If there were no way, I should not have troubled you, especially at this late hour. As for her being in danger, she has always been in danger. She was born into the world like that. I am old—very old. I have no traces of it left, but I, too, was once beautiful.”
The trembling hands fumbled at the white linen kerchief, loosening the knot against her neck. “Ah, yes, I was beautiful. But I did not come to you to speak of that. My friend, you are good; I saw that the moment I entered. I said to myself, 'There is the man who could understand our Santa and make her honorable like himself.' The world has given her no chance—no, never. The husband who should have cared for her tossed her aside like an old shoe when, like all animals robbed of their young, she struck out in self-defense. I see you have heard that—how her child was murdered and she was sent into exile for taking justice into her own hands. Doubtless you have heard much else. She is a woman who would have done no harm to any one if she had been allowed to remain a mother. But because they scoffed at her motherhood, all her goodness has turned to wickedness. Using her body as a decoy, she has slain men of the race that persecuted her. Because she could not get her child back, she has become an outlaw, making society pay for her loneliness.”
She paused, watching her effect.
Hindwood had not removed his eyes from hers. His face was troubled. “I don't think you know what has been told me. The man who introduced himself to me as her husband said that she was a half-caste, a temple dancing-girl, who to revenge herself had poisoned white men's happiness and during the war had become an international spy, working against the Allies. He made the assertion that she was responsible for the vanishing of Prince Rogovich. If these things are so, how can I, a decent, self-respecting man—”
Bending forward, the old lady clutched his hand. “It was decent, self-respecting men who made her what she is to-day.”