"I know," she answered breathlessly. "Don't talk of it."
He went on, as though not hearing her. "He came at me with both hands clenched, and I hit him under the chin. I had to, or he would have killed me if he could. He was a strong man, and he had been drinking until he was half mad. It was not my fault, Winifred."
"Oh, I know that!" she said. "Try and forget it now. It was a wicked, wicked accident."
"Life has been wicked enough for you and me lately," he answered, sighing. "You are worn to a shadow, Winifred. I suppose it is this wretched typing, day by day. We must put an end to it."
She shook her head. "I must earn a living, dear," she said. "But don't bother about me. I shall be all right. See, he has stopped. This must be—yes, it is the Grand Hotel. Will that do?"
He nodded. "Quite well," he answered.
He paid the cabman, and making some excuse at the office about luggage to come, took rooms. Then he put Winifred into a hansom, and wrote down for her Deane's address, which she already knew.
"Bring him back with you if you can," he begged. "Bring him back here. I shall be waiting in the reading-room, just round the corner there to the right."
She hesitated. "You look so faint, Basil," she said. "I am not sure whether I ought to leave you."
"I am going to have some brandy and milk," he answered. "I am going to sit down and have it there in that corner. I shall wait till you come. You will know where to look for me. Hurry, dear, please. I shall know no peace until I have seen Deane."