“Oh, signorita!” cried the girl, in a half-whisper, as she saw her. Then, without another word, she burst into violent weeping.
“Don’t cry, dear,” said Marion, as she put her arms around the girl. “I understand: you are ill, and poor, and unhappy, but I will help you gladly. I am so glad you sent for me, dear.”
Instead of answering, the poor chorus girl began weeping more bitterly than ever. Her frail form was racked with sobs that were heart-rending. The more earnestly Marion endeavored to comfort her the more hysterical she became, until at last the brave girl was fairly bewildered.
“How can I help you, dear, if you do not tell me your trouble?” she asked, in desperation, at the same time laying her hand softly on Miss Lindsay’s shoulder.
In a second the girl dropped on her knees before her. As she lifted her streaming eyes to Marion’s face she seemed suddenly to have grown a dozen years older.
“Oh, signorita, forgive me!” she cried, in agony. “Forgive me for wronging you. I did not mean it! Oh, I am a guilty, vile woman to do as I have done, but I love him. Oh, I love him, and I could not help it!”
For just one second Marion Marlowe was dazed, then, like a flash, it came to her comprehension what the weeping girl meant. She had once more been led into some wicked trap. Either her life or her virtue was in immediate danger.
“What is it? Quick! You must tell me!” she cried, seizing the girl by both shoulders. “I forgive you freely for your part in the matter, only tell me what it is, that I may protect myself. A moment more and it may be too late. Hurry, I implore you!”
There was a heavy step on the stair and Marion had heard it. The girl heard it also, and it seemed to paralyze her senses.
“Too late! Too late!” she whispered, wildly. Then, with a bound, she sprang to her dilapidated bureau and opened it.