"Ah, but he saved your life, Burke," said the Irishman pleadingly.
"It's only three days ago."
"I know what he did," said Burke briefly, both before and after that episode. "He may think himself lucky that I have no further use for him."
"But aren't you satisfied, Burke?" Kelly leaned forward impulsively. "I've told you the truth. Aren't you satisfied?"
Burke's face was grim as if hewn out of rock. "Not yet," he said. "You've told me the truth—what you know of it. But there's more to it. I've got to know—everything before I'm satisfied."
"Ah, but sure!" protested Kelly. "Women are very queer, you know. Ye can't tell what moves a woman. Often as not, it's something quite different from what you'd think."
Burke was silent, continuing his breakfast.
Kelly looked at him with eyes of pathetic persuasion. "I've been lambastin' meself all night," he burst forth suddenly, "for ever bringing ye out on such a chase. It was foul work. I see it now. She'd have come back to ye, Burke lad. She didn't mean any harm. Sure, she's as pure as the stars."
Burke's grey eyes, keen as the morning light, looked suddenly straight at him. Almost under his breath, Burke spoke. "Don't tell me—that!" he said. "Just keep Guy out of my way! That's all."
Kelly sighed aloud. "And Guy'll go to perdition faster than if the devil had kicked him. He's on his way already."
"Let him go!" said Burke.