“What’s the matter?”
He only groaned.
“Heavens, man! tell me what’s wrong.”
Suddenly he looked up at me with wild staring eyes.
“Don’t touch me, Madden; I’m accursed. Don’t you see the brand of Cain on me? I’m a murderer! Oh, God! a murderer.”
He rocked up and down, sobbing convulsively.
“What have you done?” I cried, horrified. “Tell me quick.”
“I’ve killed her,” he panted; “I’ve killed Lucretia. She’s dead now, dead in my studio. I’m on my way to give myself up to the police.”
“Killed Lucretia?”
“Yes, yes. I didn’t mean to do it. I was mad for revenge. I had her at my mercy. I thought of poor Rougette. Her moans have haunted me night and day. They’ve almost driven me mad. I can’t blot out the memory of that poor, bandaged face. Then when I saw that female devil before me something seemed to snap in my brain. So I’ve killed her. Now I’m sorry; but it’s too late, too late.”