"Beverley," he said, "oh, Beverley, s-she won't let me touch her." And so stood a while with his face hidden in his griping hands. After a moment he looked down at her again, but seeing how she yet gazed at him with that wide, awful, fixed stare, he strove as if to speak; then, finding no words, turned suddenly upon his heel and crossing the room, went into his bed-chamber and locked the door.
Then Barnabas knelt beside that shaken, desolate figure and fain would have comforted her, but now he could hear her speaking in a passionate whisper, and the words she uttered were these:
"Oh, God forgive him! Oh, God help him! Have mercy upon him, oh God of Pity!"
And these words she whispered over and over again until, at length,
Barnabas reached out and touched her very gently.
"Cleone!" he said.
At the touch she rose and stood looking round the dingy room like one distraught, and, sighing, crossed unsteadily to the door.
And when they reached the stair, Barnabas would have taken her hand because of the dark, but she shrank away from him and shook her head.
"Sir," said she very softly, "a murderer's sister needs no help, I thank you."
And so they went down the dark stair with never a word between them and, reaching the door with the faulty latch, Barnabas held it open and they passed out into the dingy street, and as they walked side by side towards Hatton Garden, Barnabas saw that her eyes were still fixed and wide and that her lips still moved in silent prayer.
In a while, being come into Hatton Garden, Barnabas saw a hackney coach before them, and beside the coach a burly, blue-clad figure, a conspicuous figure by reason of his wooden leg and shiny, glazed hat.