CHAPTER XI. AURELIA
While I was fretting myself into a state of hysteria, the catch of one of the great window-doors above me was pushed back. Someone came out on the balcony just over my head. It was a woman, evidently in some great distress, for she was sobbing bitterly. I thought it mean to stand there hearing her cry, so I moved away. As I walked off, the window opened again. A big heavy-looted man came out.
“Stop crying, Aurelia,” the voice said. “Here's the stuff. Put it in your pocket.”
“I can't,” the woman answered. “I can't.”
I stopped moving away when I heard that voice. It was the voice of the Longshore Jack woman who had had those adventures with me. I should have known her voice anywhere, even choked as it then was with sobs. It was a good voice, of a pleasant quality, but with a quick, authoritative ring.
“I can't,” she said. “I can't, Father.”
“Put it in your pocket,” her father said. “No rubbish of that sort. You must.”
“It would kill me. I couldn't,” she answered. “I should hate myself forever.”
“No more of that to me,” said the cold, hard voice with quiet passion. “Your silly scruples aren't going to outweigh a nation's need. There it is in your pocket. Be careful you don't use too much. If you fail again, remember, you'll earn your own living. Oh, you bungler! When I think of—”
“I'm no bungler. You know it,” she answered passionately. “I planned everything. You silly men never backed me up. Who was it guessed right this time? I suppose you think you'd have come here without my help? That's like a man.”