“No,” he answered.
The fire began to burn brightly. They sat for a moment looking into it; then leaning toward him over the arm of the chair, she said, almost in a whisper,
“Where’s Jerry?”
“Jerry?” he answered with a sudden slowness of utterance. “Jerry? Jerry’s somewhere.”
“As I came along everybody seemed to be talking of him. I heard his name all along the street. It seemed as if it was following me. I’m afraid of Jerry.”
“You needn’t be any more. You won’t see him again. There’s—he’s—I’ll tell you about that to-morrow, too.”
“Will you let me stay with you?” she continued. “Will you let me live here, somewhere near you? Will you take care of me?”
He took her hand and pressed it, then held it out, cold and trembling, to the blaze, nodding his answer without looking at her.
“I have nowhere else to go. I don’t know where my father is. Uncle Jim, I can’t live up in the Murchison mansion alone. It’s full of ghosts and memories. I’m afraid of it. I’m afraid of Jerry. I’m afraid of myself.”
“You needn’t be afraid any more. I’m going to take care of you now. We’ll get some rooms for you back here with the landlady, and by and by we’ll get something better. You’re never going back to the Murchison mansion.”