“Why, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, distressed, “don’t look at me that way.”
“You think I’m crazy—you do?” He repeated his question, seizing her wrists, watching her closely with his sharp, short glances.
“No; you’re not crazy,” she said vehemently.
He continued to watch her, plainly unconvinced.
“I’m not crazy—no,” he said, at length, wearily, “but—I could be driven to it. Yes, yes; lots of times that’s happened. That’s what they counted on, and if they had got me—if I had waked up in a cell—a padded cell—” He shrank back, recoiling at the picture which rose before him, his fingers twisting in his hair. “God, what might not have happened! Now you know.”
“Yes; I’ve known that.”
“You have?” he said, surprised.
“I mean, I’ve known what you were afraid of,” she said solemnly.
“I am afraid, dreadfully afraid,” he said, in a whisper, “but that—that’s one thing will never happen,” he added in a tone of deep conviction; “no, never.”
“No; for I won’t let you,” she said firmly. “You shan’t lose your grasp. When things are straightened out, you’re going to begin a new life—a life of work.”