He lit a cigar and took a few puffs. He really felt very much better now. The tea and the sandwiches had done him good, and the atmosphere of the place was most restful. The sun was sinking. Already the corners of the room were shadowy, and a shaft of mellow light from the window illumined the woman’s glittering hair in a singular fashion. Seen thus, and through a faint haze of tobacco smoke, she looked not exactly pretty, but certainly attractive, so straight was she, so trim, so smart, so self-possessed.
Mr. Donalds came to his senses with a start.
“The terms, madam!” he said—not savagely now, but firmly.
“Mr. Henderson,” she replied, “I shouldn’t like you to misunderstand me. Perhaps it is a weakness, but I shouldn’t like you to think that my motives were unworthy.”
“I—” he began, and stopped himself just in time. “I don’t think so,” he had been about to say, but that would never do; so he said nothing.
“I give you my word,” she continued, in a voice almost sorrowful, “that I personally have nothing whatever to gain by this. My only object has been to secure justice for others.”
“Justice!” repeated Mr. Donalds. “You call it justice to—”
“I do,” said she. “Now please listen. First”—she paused—“first, that poor creature—that governess—”
“Ha!” cried Mr. Donalds. “Miss Mackellar! So she is a party to this!”
“No, she isn’t. She’s simply a victim, and I don’t wish her to suffer for what isn’t her fault. Any one could see what she is,” the red-haired woman went on with great earnestness. “She’s perfectly helpless. She’s a victim of life—of man.”