But Marie would not go in. She held back, clinging tight to Peter's big hand, moaning out in the dialect of the people that always confused him her story of the day, of what she had done, of watching Stewart brought back, of stealing into the house and through an adjacent room to the balcony, of her desperation and her cowardice.
She was numb with cold, exhaustion, and hunger, quite childish, helpless. Peter stood out on the balcony with his arm round her, while the night wind beat about them, and pondered what was best to do. He thought she might come in and care for Stewart, at least, until he was conscious. He could get her some supper.
“How can I?” she asked. “I was seen. They are searching for me now. Oh, Peter! Peter!”
“Who is searching for you? Who saw you?”
“The people in the Russian villa.”
“Did they see your face?”
“I wore a veil. I think not.”
“Then come in and change your clothes. There is a train down at midnight. You can take it.”
“I have no money.”
This raised a delicate question. Marie absolutely refused to take Stewart's money. She had almost none of her own. And there were other complications—where was she to go? The family of the injured girl did not suspect her since they did not know of her existence. She might get away without trouble. But after that, what?