"There are those who will care for her. As for the truth ... it is a man's quarrel. They will be friends to-morrow, lady. Obey me and go quickly."
"I will not leave the child," she protested—not knowing whether his story were false or true and fearing greatly.
For answer, he took her by the arm menacingly and drew her toward the door.
"Go before ill befall you. The child is our daughter. Are we of the people who do not care for their own children? Go, lest worse follow! The man will live—I, Molines, say it."
The words found her without argument. This child had been with the gypsies at the Manor. What harm would befall her if she remained with them here? And it was no time for woman's pity. The story of the house lay upon her as a heavy shadow. She had the desire to flee far from it; to blot it out of her dreams; to forget its humiliations; to escape its darkness. A voice called her to the way of salvation and she went with the gypsy.
"The carriage will take you as you came," he said; "ask no questions, lady; do not betray us if you value your life and that of another. That which has happened in this house to-night will never be known to the world. Seek not the story, for it is not yours to seek."
She had no rejoinder for him. There were lamps still alight in the hall as they descended the staircase and the door of a room upon the right hand side was a little way open. Evelyn half-believed that she saw the body of a man lying upon the table there as she passed swiftly by; but the door closed immediately and the gypsy hurried her from the house.
"Remember," he said, "be silent ... it is your only hope, lady."
She shuddered and drew away from him. The electric brougham which had carried her from the theatre now rolled slowly up the drive. She entered it without a word and so was driven swiftly away.