"We'll pull him through together," Sigrid answered.
"Mr. Meredith, don't you think with Mrs. Compton and Mrs. Smithers on guard, the situation should pass muster?"
He shrugged his broad shoulders. He was looking at Anne—Anne whose white, tear-stained face peered out of the shadow like a pitiful, frightened ghost's, and somehow the sight filled him with a cold anger.
"My suggestion was well meant," he said. "I made it for Major Tristram's sake as well as for yours. I thought he would prefer to find himself among old friends."
"He could have come to us," Anne said, in her thin, broken voice. "I have nursed so much—and mother understands sickness, too——"
Sigrid Fersen glanced at her.
"I suppose Colonel Boucicault is an old friend," she said. "Colonel Boucicault, who has helped to kill him——"
There was a second of strained silence. Anne's face had changed from white to red, and then to a deeper pallor. She dropped forward with a little moan, her face hidden in her hands, crying helplessly. Meredith took a step forward, as though to protect her. The veins on his low, broad forehead were swollen.
"Surely——" he began hoarsely.
Sigrid made an imperative gesture.