Bram wondered if he had heard all.
“Come, come, be a man, Mr. Biron,” said he. “What is it you’re afraid of?”
“That sh—she—devil who—who half-blinded me, who threw that stuff over me!” sobbed Theodore. “She’s followed me—from Holme Park—I managed to dodge her among the trees of the park; but she knows where I live. She’ll come here, I know she will.” Suddenly he drew himself up, in another spasm of fear. “See that the door is locked in the front, and the windows—see to them!” cried he, with a burst of energy.
“All right,” said Bram. “I’ll see to that. You stay here with her,” and he indicated Claire with a movement of the head.
But Mr. Biron shrank into himself, and tried to follow Bram out.
“I’m afraid of her! She’s gone mad; I know she has,” whispered he. “Haven’t you heard what she did to-night—down at the works?”
And Theodore, whose face had in a moment gone ashy white, all but the inflamed patch on the left side, which had become a livid blue, crept closer still to Bram. But the young man’s face as he again looked towards the unconscious girl wore nothing but infinite pity, infinite tenderness.
“You’re right, Mr. Biron. The poor child is mad, I believe,” he said gravely. “And, thank God, she hasn’t come to herself yet. One could almost wish,” he added, more to himself than to his companion, “that she never may.”
Mr. Biron shuddered.
“Do you mean that she is ill?” he asked querulously.