The firmness of his manner, the gentleness, had a heartbreaking effect. In a moment the woman’s eyes were flooded with tears, which coursed down her cheeks. It was the relief that her poor troubled brain and nerves demanded, and so Fyles understood.
He waited patiently until the passion of weeping was over. Then again he urged his demand.
“Now tell me, Kate. Tell me all. And remember I’m not here as your judge. I am here to help—because—I love you.”
The look from the woman’s eyes thanked him. Then she bowed her head lest the sight of him should leave her afraid.
“Must I tell it all?”
Kate’s tone was firmer. There was a ring in it that reminded the other of the woman he used to know.
“Tell me just what you wish. No more—no less. You are telling it for your own sake, remember. To me—it makes no difference.”
“There’s no use in telling it you from the start. The things that led up to it,” she began. “I have been smuggling whisky for nearly five years. It’s a pretty admission, isn’t it? Yes, you may well be horrified,” she went on, as Fyles started.
But the man denied.