"No, Nannie—go! Go quickly! Go—now!"
"Yes, Miss Genevieve. He'll be wanting to know where I am."
"Go, Nannie!" She half rose from her chair. The door closed quietly behind the woman. "Go!" Genevieve Evans whispered. "He's going—into the country—; he's taking that woman. He wouldn't let me. He wants to keep me here. Just to feel his power—; his filthy power. He's not the only one." She was muttering now. "He's not the only one who can do things. Rotten—dirty things! His kind of things!"
She swayed to her feet. Her steps were short and uncertain. Her whole body reeled. Her face was blanched; drained of all color. Her fingers trembled wide spread at her sides. She was quivering from head to foot.
Only her eyes were steady; her eyes wide and dilated that were riveted on the portrait hanging there above the wood carved mantel.
She backed toward the door, her eyes glued to the picture.
Her shaking fingers, fumbling behind her, found the key and turned it.
Feeling her way with her hands, her distended eyes still fixed on that one thing, she got to the center table.
It took her a while to pull open the drawer.
Her breath came raspingly; as if she had been running.