“So, it’s as bad as that,” he sneered. “I didn’t quite realise it. I’m much obliged to you. Good-night.” He snatched up his coat, hesitated, then repeated a little less angrily than before: “Good-night!”
But the Girl, with her face still hidden, made no answer. For a moment he watched the crouching form, the quivering shoulders, then asked, with sudden and unwonted gentleness:
“Can’t you say good-night to me, Girl!”
Slowly the Girl rose to her feet and faced him, aversion and pity struggling for mastery. Then, as she noted the spot where he was now standing, his great height bringing him so near to the low boards of the loft where her lover was lying that it seemed as though he must hear the wounded man’s breathing, all other feelings were swept away by overwhelming fear. With the one thought that she must get rid of him,—do anything, say anything, but get rid of him quickly, she forced herself forward, with extended hand, and said in a voice that held out new promise:
“Good-night. Jack Rance,—good-night!”
Rance seized the hand with an almost fierce gladness in both his own, his keen glance hungrily striving to read her face. Then, suddenly, he released her, drawing back his hand with a quick sharpness.
“Why, look at my hand! There’s blood on it!” he said.
And even as he spoke, under the yellow flare of the lamp, the Girl saw a second drop of blood fall at her feet. Like a flash, the terrible significance of it came upon her. Only by self-violence could she keep her glance from rising, tell-tale, to the boards above.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she heard herself saying contritely, all the time desperately groping to invent a reason; at length, she added futilely: “I must have scratched you.”
Rance looked puzzled, staring at the spatter of red as though hypnotised.