Bailey bent his head toward the table where the men had laid their burden. "Lift that," he said hoarsely.
The countess lifted the shawl with a steady hand. There was an old white straw bonnet flattened down over the forehead; a wisp of blue ribbon string was blown across the face and over the red smear between the eyebrow and the hair; the eyes stared wide and glassy. But it was the same soft brown hair. The countess knew Martha Bailey.
"There was women and children on the sidewalk, but they fired right into us," said Bailey. He spoke in a monotonous, dragging voice, as though every word were an effort. "They killed her. I asked you to give me work in your shop, and you wouldn't do it. Here's the end of it. Now you can go home and say your prayers."
"I don't say prayers," answered the countess, "and you know I offered you work. But don't let us reproach each other here. Where are your children?"
"Ain't you satisfied with what you have done already?" said Bailey. "Leave me alone: you'd better."
"Gently now!" said one of the policemen.
"Whatever you may think of me," said the countess quietly, "you know Mrs. Greymer was always your wife's friend. We only wanted to help her."
Bailey shook off the grasp of the policemen as though it had been a feather: with one great stride he reached the countess and caught her roughly by the wrist. "Look at her, will you?" he cried: "you and the likes of you, with your smooth cant, have killed her! You crush us and starve us till we turn, and then you shoot us down like dogs. Leave my children alone."
"None of that, my man!" said the sergeant.
The two policemen would have pulled Bailey away, but the countess stopped them. She had turned pale even to her lips, but she did not wince.