“Why do you want to kill yourself?”
She looked at him in dumb despair.
“How did you get here?” he demanded.
“Your fire escape.”
“And to that from the garden wall, I suppose? So you were Ely Crouch’s companion,” he cried with a changed voice.
“Don’t,” she shuddered, throwing her right arm over her face.
“I beg your pardon,” he said gently. “Take a swallow of this water. What’s the matter with your arm? Are you hurt?”
“No.” Her eyes would not meet his. They were fixed obstinately upon the pocket into which he had dropped the poison.
“It’s incredible!” he burst out. “You with your youth and loveliness! With everything that makes life sweet for yourself and others. What madness—” He broke off and his voice softened into persuasion. “We were almost friends, once. Can’t I—won’t you let me help? Don’t you think you can trust me?”
She raised her eyes to his, and he read in them hopeless terror. “Yes, I could trust you. But there is only one help for me now. And you’ve taken it from me.”