Whether the silent monition reached her, certainly her next words showed no agitation, rather, a queer, poised sagacity.
"What I sit here thinking," she went on, "is that maybe a stupid fireman, even a bad, lying fireman, could 'save the house' where Julian—Julian would only be burnt to death with the rest."
As though acting on sudden impulse, Newcomb brought out the question he had been longing to put all these days.
"Do you mind my asking you why are you leaving home at a time when traveling is, to say the least—" In the pause he said to himself: She won't trust me. Why should she—except for the difference it had seemed to make to her when she learned that he was a friend not only of Grant's, but of Gavan Napier's. In the first days they had talked about Napier.
"I've come," she said after a moment—"I've come because, do what I would, I couldn't prevent Mr. Grant's coming."
"I see. You wouldn't be on this ship if Mr. Grant weren't."
She hesitated again.
"You can see how ill he is, and his coming to America and getting deeper into—all this, holding those meetings and being so attacked about them at home, that's my doing."
"Your doing!" said Newcomb, giving astonishment the rein.
"Yes. If I hadn't written to him—the things I did write, he wouldn't have come to America."