And turning about, M'Ginnis stumbled out of the place and left her alone. For a long time she sat there, motionless and crouched above the table, staring blindly before her, and in her eyes an agony beyond tears, heedless of the flight of time, conscious only of a pain sharper than flesh can know. Suddenly a key was thrust in the lock of the outer door, footsteps sounded along the passage accompanied by a merry whistling, and Spike appeared.
"Hello, Hermy, ain't tea ready yet?" he enquired, tossing aside his straw hat and opening a newspaper he carried, "say, the Giants are sure playin' great ball this season—what, are ye asleep?"
"No, dear!"
"Why, Hermy," he exclaimed, dropping the paper and clasping an arm about her, "Oh, Hermy—what is it?"
"Oh, boy—dear, dear boy—you didn't, did you?" she cried feverishly. "You are a little wild—sometimes, dear, just a little—but you are good—and honourable, aren't you?"
"Why, yes, Hermy I—I try t' be," he answered uneasily; "but I don't know what you mean."
"You're not a thief, are you? You're not a burglar? You never broke into any one's house. I know you didn't, but—tell me you didn't—tell me you didn't!"
"No—no, o' course not," stammered Spike and, averting his head, tried to draw away, but she clung to him all the closer.
"Boy—boy dear," she whispered breathlessly, "oh, boy, look at me!"
But seeing he kept his face still turned from her, she set a hand to his cheek and very gently forced him to meet her look. For a long moment she gazed thus—saw how his eyes quailed, saw how his cheek blanched, and as he cowered away, she rose slowly to her feet, and into her look came a growing horror; beholding which Spike covered his face and shrank away from her.