"That you shall do presently, alanah," he said, touching her gently, the familiar voice close at her ear. "But now you must be going to bed and trying to sleep. 'Tis a cruel day ye've had—cruel! But to-morrow when ye've had some rest——"
"To-morrow——?" she raised a despairing face.
"Ye've got to be facing it. But no more to-night. Come."
She let him take her by the arm to the door.
"Forgive me, acushla," he whispered.
But she made no reply and left him standing there. And Quinlevin watched her merge into the darkness within, then turned and picked up the cigarette he had dropped, lighted it with great care, and sat and smoked, ruminating over the ashes in the fireplace.
But he had played his cards with the true gambler's knowledge, of the psychology of his victim. Jealousy! Such a weapon at his very hand. It was almost a pity to use it. Poor child. As if she hadn't already suffered enough! But there was no choice. And she would get over it. Love never killed—only hate ... only hate. He finished one cigarette and then glanced toward the door through which Moira had passed. Then lighted another and composed himself for awhile longer.
It was not until he was near the end of this cigarette that a slight sound caused him to look up over his shoulder. Framed against the black opening Moira stood, pale, dark eyed, her black hair streaming over her flimsy dressing-gown, and then came forward noiselessly.
"Moira, child——!" he cried, rising, with an air of surprise.
"You must show me the proof——," she stammered, "what you said—to-morrow."