“Well, good night,” he said lightly, and vanished up the steps into the upper room. Mrs. McNab and I looked at each other, and there was something in her eyes that made me ache with pity.
“Oh, you are unhappy!” I cried. “I wish I could help you.”
She caught my hand, holding it tightly.
“I am indeed unhappy,” she said. “I will tell you about it—I know I can trust you.”
It was a queer story—the kind of thing that I had thought happened only in romances. The man—Ronald Hull was his name—was her twin-brother: she touched lightly on his career, but I gathered that from his boyhood he had never been anything but an anxiety. Before the death of their parents he had been compelled to leave the bank in which he was a clerk, narrowly escaping prosecution for embezzling bank money. Then he had gone from bad to worse, living on his wits, constantly appealing to her for funds, always on the edge of trouble and disgrace. Her husband had established him in an auctioneer’s firm in New South Wales some years before, and they hoped that they had done with him; but during the previous year he had again contrived to steal a large sum, and this time they could not protect him. He had been arrested, convicted, and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment.
Her voice failed when she told me this. I patted her hand—never had I felt so helpless and so young.
“Don’t you think you have talked enough?” said a cold voice at the opening above our heads. “I warned you to be careful, Marie.”
“Be quiet!” she said angrily. “Do you want your voice to be heard?” She turned to me. “Go down to your room—I will come presently.”
When she came, she was flushed, and there was a light of battle in her eyes.
“He is very angry with me,” she said. “But you must know enough to make you understand. And I am worn out with silence and secrecy.” I put her into a comfortable chair, and she went on with her story.