“She devours her lover while she is still in his embrace.”
“How horrible!”
“Horrible, but the creature is a very faithful and devoted mother. I think there are many women”—here his hunted and haggard look rested upon me—“who would be glad to rid themselves of a lover when his—particular—usefulness is over.”
“All women kill the thing they love,” I smiled, and I had a dreadful feeling that my smile was like the cruel and thin-lipped smile of the woman who had planned Paul Dabney's death.
That was one of the most terrifying consequences of the nervous shock I had suffered, that I had quite often now this obsession, as though the vixen were using me, obsessing my body with her blackened soul, as though gradually I were becoming her instrument. The smile left my shaken lips, and I saw a sort of reflection of it draw Dabney's mouth stiffly across his teeth. His pallor deepened; he looked away and began to crumble his bread with restless fingers.
Henry passed through, and we followed him into the drawing-room, where coffee was always served. When Paul Dabney had first come into the dining-room I had glanced shrewdly at Henry. The jaw behind the whiskers had dropped, the eyes had blinked, then discretion was perfectly restored. But I felt a threatening sort of gloom emanate from the man towards me, and I realized that my position was doubly dangerous. There was a spirit of mutiny in my supposed accomplices. I trusted my double, however, to control the pair. Their fear of her was doubtless greater than their dread of detection, and Henry probably was relieved of some portion of his fears by the non-appearance of the Hovey, whom Sara had so befouled with epithets, and whom she evidently so greatly feared.
Mrs. Brane excused herself early, and I, too, rose shortly after she had left the room. I moved slowly towards the door. Paul Dabney stood by the high mantel, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the shelf, his head a little bent, looking somberly at me from under his handsome brows. He looked very slim and young. The thought of his loneliness, of his danger, so much greater than he suspected, smote my heart. I wanted to go back and tell him everything, even my love. I was hesitating, ready to turn, when he spoke. The voice, sharp and stinging as a lash, fell with a bite across my heart.
“Good-night, sleep-walker,” he said.
My hand flew to my breast because of the pain he caused me. He watched me narrowly. His pale face was rigid with the guard he kept upon some violent feeling. My hurt turned to anger.
“You suspect me of sinister things, Paul Dabney,” I said hotly; “you think that I prowl about Mrs. Brane's house while she sleeps, in search of something valuable, perhaps.” I laughed softly. “Perhaps you are right. I give you leave to pursue your investigations, though I can't say I consider you a very ingenious detective.”