She turned, with a gasp, and hid her face in her hands, shuddering with horror and loathing.
“Oh! oh!” she cried, “I know already–I know all!”
“All?” demanded Blake, staring blankly.
“Yes; all! And–and he made me think it was you!” She gasped, and fell silent.
Blake’s face went white. He spoke in a clear, vibrant voice, tense as an overstrained violin string: “I am speaking about Winthrope–understand me?–Winthrope. He has been badly hurt.”
“The door swung down and struck him, when he was creeping in.”
“God!” roared Blake. “I picked him up like a sick baby–the beast!–’stead of grinding my heel in his face! God! I’ll–”
“Tom! don’t–don’t even speak it! Tom!”
“God! When a helpless girl–when a –!” He choked, beside himself with rage.
She sprang to him, and caught his sleeve in a convulsive grasp. “Hush, for mercy’s sake! Tom Blake, remember–you’re a man!”