He saw the words strike her as lightning strikes and blasts a fair flower. A terrible shiver ran through the young girl, then she stood still, as though turned to stone, her face overspread with the pallor of death.
The policeman was used to all phases of human nature. He saw that this girl's grief was genuine, and felt sorry for her.
"Surely you have a home, friends, here somewhere?" he asked.
Bernardine shook her head, sobbing piteously.
"I lived in the tenement house on Canal Street that has just been burned down. My father perished in it, leaving me alone in the world—homeless, shelterless—and—and this man asked me to marry him, and—and I—did."
The policeman was convinced more than ever by her story that some roué had taken advantage of the girl's pitiful situation to lead her astray.
"That's bad. But surely you have friends somewhere?"
Again Bernardine shook her head, replying, forlornly:
"Not one on earth. Papa and I lived only for each other."
The policeman looked down thoughtfully for a moment. He said to himself that he ought to try to save her from the fate which he was certain lay before her.