“Judge Abercrombie, this is Mr. Christopher Hollis,” said Paul; “he lives here, and he is a great friend of mine. Hollis, will you help about the baggage? I’m coming back immediately.”
They drove away, but not before Cicely had asked Paul to let her sit beside him; Eve was left alone on the back seat.
“I wanted to sit beside you, Paul; but I’m afraid I can’t talk,” Cicely said. She put the back of her hand under her chin, as if to support her head; she looked about vaguely—at the street, the passing people.
“That’s right, don’t say anything; I like it better. You must be terribly tired,” answered Paul, reassuringly.
They stopped before a white cottage. Upon entering, Paul gave an inquiring glance at Eve; then he left the room, and came back with two letters.
Cicely tore them open.
Eve drew nearer.
In another instant Cicely gave a cry which rang through the house. “He is hurt! Some one has shot him—has shot him!” Clutching the pages, she swayed forward, but Paul caught her. He laid her upon a couch; with his large, strong hands he placed a cushion under her head.
Eve watched him. She did not help him. Then she came to the sofa. “Is he dead, Cicely?” she asked, abruptly.
Cicely looked at her. “You want him to be!” Springing up suddenly, like a little tigress, still clutching her letters, she struck Eve with her left hand. Her gloved palm was soft, but, as she had exerted all her strength in the blow, the mark across Eve’s cheek was red.