“Mr. Felix—came here—to New York—my lady—and is here now—or was some weeks ago—doing nothing but walk the streets.” The words had come one by one, Martha's clasp tightening as she spoke.
The wasted figure lifted itself from the pillow and sat bolt upright.
“MARTHA! What do you mean!”
“Yes, right here in New York, my lady.”
“It isn't so!” Her hands were now clutching Martha's shoulders. “Tell me it isn't so! It can't be so!”
“It's the blessed God's truth, every word of it! He and Stephen have been looking for you day and night.”
“Looking for me? Me! Oh, the shame of it, the shame!” Then with sudden fright: “But he must not find me! He shall not find me! You won't let him find me, will you, Martha?” Her arms were now tight about the old woman's neck, her agonized face turning wildly toward the door, as if she thought that Felix were already there. “You don't think he wants to kill me, do you?” she whispered at last, her face hidden in the nurse's neck.
Martha folded her own strong arms about the shaking woman, warming and comforting her, as she had warmed and comforted the child. She would go through with it now to the end.
“No, it's not you he wants to kill,” she said firmly, when the trembling figure was still.
Lady Barbara loosened her grasp and stared at her companion. “Then what does he want to see me for?” she asked, in a dazed, distracted tone.