He threw the pistol from him and pulled himself up, till he sat looking at me.
"In heaven's name, what can you see in a fellow like that?"
"What's that to you?" I turned to go.
"To me? Things of that sort are nothing, of course, to me—me, that 'luckless Pot He marr'd in making.' But, tell me—can a girl like you tell the truth? What made you hesitate when that fellow told you with his eyes to murder me?"
"How did you know?"
"How? The glass. See over yonder. I could watch every expression on both your faces. What was it—what was it, child, that made you—oh, if you owe me a single heart-beat of gratitude, tell me the truth!"
"You've said it yourself."
"What?"
"That line we read the other night about 'the luckless Pot'."
His face went gray and he fell back on his pillows. The strenuous life we'd been leading him, Tom and I, was too much for him, I guess.