"Oh, I'll have to tell you everything, now. I can't bear it any longer. It was bad enough while I had Leah to depend upon, but now I must have somebody to confide in, or I shall go mad—if I haven't already gone mad."
I looked over at the table where I noticed a coffee-pot and a cup on a salver. "How much coffee have you drunk?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Cup after cup. I've been drinking it all day to keep me awake."
"That accounts for your nerves. You must rest. If you sleep a little, you'll get your strength back."
She sprang up suddenly, her gripped fists raised, her head thrown back in a sudden new access of alarm. "Oh, no, no, no! You don't understand! I daren't sleep! I'm afraid—afraid! How do I know what may happen, now when I'm so worn out!"
I had done considerable thinking while I was away, and I had done some reading as well. I was beginning now to make it out, piece by piece, and put it together in an astonishing whole. It was too late, in this crisis, for reserves, too late for me to keep to my promise of not trying to know. The girl was distraught and alone. And, indeed, the door to the cupboard where her skeleton had been hidden was now well ajar.
"You are afraid, you mean, of the other one?" I brought it out deliberately.
She stared at me, like a somnambulist.
"Yes," she whispered, "of the 'other one.'"
Then for the first time, and quite unconsciously, I think, she used my name. It seemed so natural to me that I was not surprised.