Katharine pressed her hand to her eyes with all her might, as though to crush out the memory of what she had seen. Then she went forward at last, and began to go down the stairs.
She heard a man’s footstep, swift, nervous and strong, coming up from below, and as she reached the first landing she came face to face with Paul Griggs. His weather-beaten face was so grey and drawn that she should hardly have known him in a crowd, and the weary, dark eyes that met hers had something in them which she could not understand. He stood aside to let her pass, but would have said nothing had she not spoken.
“She’s alone with him, up there,” she said in a sort of scared whisper. “She’s going mad—it’s dreadful.”
Griggs looked as though he would have gone on without answering, though he did not actually make a step. His dark eyes were dull and glassy, and his jaws were set, as though he were in great pain.
“Can’t you do something for her?” asked Katharine, hesitating. “Shouldn’t we send for Doctor Routh? He might give her something.”
She made the suggestion vaguely, as women do. There is something pathetic about their blind faith in medicine, though they may have seen it fail a hundred times.
“If you like,” answered Griggs, in a far-away tone, as though he scarcely knew what she was saying. “Send for him if you like. I don’t care.”
Katharine stared at him in surprise. He was sometimes a little absent-minded, but she could not understand his being so at that moment. She laid her left hand upon his arm with a gesture half of appeal, half of authority.
“Something must be done,” she said. “She’s really going mad. She mustn’t be left alone with it any longer.”
“I don’t think she’ll go mad,” Griggs answered. “But I shall,” he added, with an unnatural smile, which recalled Hester’s.