“It is there—there,” she whispered. “He confesses it. There is no hope for me. No hope—no hope”—
She had begun pacing the room once more, and as she spoke she found herself standing in front of the glazed case of poisoned arrows which Claude had brought back with him from Africa.
She looked at the arrows and repeated the words, “No hope—no hope.”
The beating of her heart sounded through the stillness.
“I was wrong—I was wrong,” she whispered, with her eyes still gazing at those strange things as if they had power to fascinate her. She looked at them, then with a shudder she turned and fled across the room. “No, no, not that—not that!” she cried.
She stood beside the screen at the other side of the room; and then she seemed to hear again the voice which had said those words in her ear—“The sister of a murderer—the sister of the man who killed his best friend. He will be here in a day or two and all the world will ring with his name—with your name. There is no hope for you—no hope!”
She put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out that dread voice; but it would not be shut out. It came to her with maddening monotony. She walked to and fro saying beneath her breath:
“Mercy—mercy—for God's sake, mercy!”
She made a pause as if listening for something. Then with a cry, in the agony of her despair, she rushed back to the case of arrows and crashed in the glass with both her gloved hands.
In a second her hands were grasped from behind.