“And you did this for me?” His hands reached out, and fell upon the girl's slight shoulders, and tightened there. “You did this for me—Teresa?”
“I did it because there was no other thing to do, because—because”—her voice lost its steadiness—-“it was my father's guilt.”
He drew her closer, with a strange, gentle, remorseless strength.
“And for no other reason—Teresa?” he whispered. “For only that? If it had not been your father? If he had had nothing to do with it? If it had been only me?” Her face was very close to his now, so close that the quick, sudden panting of her breath was upon his cheek, so close that her lips were almost warm upon his own.
She put out her hands, and pressed them with a curious gentleness against his face to ward him off.
“Don't!” Her voice was very low. “Have you forgotten that I am the daughter of the man who meant—who meant perhaps to take your life; that I am the daughter of a criminal?”
“And I”—he had her wrists now, and was holding the soft, trembling hands against his cheeks—“I am a thief.”
“Oh, don't!” She was almost crying now. “You—you don't understand. There is more. I meant, if I could, to take that money from you myself.”
In sheer astonishment he let her go, and drew back a step. She seemed to waver unsteadily on her feet there in the darkness for an instant, and her hand groped out to the platform railing for support; and then suddenly she stood erect, her face full toward him, her head thrown back a little on her shoulders.
“I meant to get it, if I could—to give it back to those to whom it belongs. And I still mean to.” Her voice was quiet now, quivering a little, but bravely under control, “All my life has been a lie. I lived a lie the night I let you go away without a word of protest about what you were going to do. I do not mean to throw the blame upon my father, but with his death all those old ties were broken. Will you try to understand me? I must either now go on in the old way, or go straight with my conscience and with God. I could not bargain with God or my conscience. It was all or nothing. I had a share in enabling you to hoodwink the police. Therefore if you came into possession of that money again, I was as much a thief as you were, and as guilty. But I owed it to you, above all other things, to warn you of your danger; and so I came here—to warn you first—and afterwards, when you were safe from Dago George's reach, to watch you, and get the money myself if I could. Do you understand?