Arthur rose to his feet, and then, leaning against the mantel-board, buried his face in his hands. "I can't leave London, Paul!—or, if I did, it could only be for a day," he said in a low tone. "I wish I could tell you why, but I can't; you wouldn't understand!"
"I think I know," Paul said quietly. "There is some one whom you do not care to leave! Is that not it?"
Arthur looked up quickly. His face was very white, and his lip was quivering.
"Who told you that? What do you know?"
"I know nothing! I want you to tell me. Perhaps I could help you. There is a—lady in the case, isn't there?"
Arthur stood up on the hearthrug, and spoke, with a subdued passion trembling in his tone.
"Yes! it's Adrea Kiros, the dancer! I daresay you've heard all about it! I don't see why you shouldn't! I can't leave her! I know all that you would say! It doesn't make any difference. She isn't good! Well! I know it! She doesn't care for me! I don't believe she does. She's as cruel as a woman can be. Sometimes, when I am away from her, the thought of going back makes me shudder; and yet, I could no more keep away than lift the roof from this house. Of course, this sounds like rigmarole to you. You think I'm raving! I don't blame you. Only it is so, and I can't help it! I am as much a prisoner as any poor devil in Newgate."
Paul laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder, and looked kindly into his face. "Arthur, I'm very sorry! And don't think I don't understand! I do! I do not know much of A—of Adrea Kiros, but I know enough to tell me that she is a very dangerous woman. Can't I help you, somehow?"