She stared.
"You must be escorted," he went on, his coolness bewildering her, "or that man of yours will get you. A mail leaves here in half an hour—dog-train; the fastest run to Prospect going. I'll send you out with it. It's under Police escort. You'll be safe."
"I—I don't know—what to say——"
"Don't say anything," he answered. "I owe you this for your warning. And—before you go—won't you tell me really why you came? I recognise—forgive my saying so—that you're not illiterate. What induced you——"
She hung her head—then, swiftly, threw it back—great courage in the way she faced the scorn she felt impending.
"Hector," she exclaimed, "don't you remember—Georgina Harris—in Toronto?"
He puckered his brows, struggling with his memory. Slowly it all came back. He saw the girl standing with him, under the lamp—many years, many years ago.
Georgina Harris—the hideous truth confronted him. The girl had followed the path that might have been expected, then. This painted, wornout woman, mistress to a criminal, was Georgina Harris. Life suddenly seemed a terrible thing, youth dead with them both——
"I loved you once, Hector," she said wanly. "That's why I couldn't see you shot in cold blood—now. Don't condemn me, Hector. Please!"
He could not speak a word.