There was the bitterest pain in her voice—pain, humiliation. Leith half put out his hand, then withdrew it, as if he were not quite sure of what it was that he would do. There was a new light in his eyes—a curious light which she could not quite comprehend. There seemed to be sorrow in it—sorrow for her—and yet it glowed with passion and—and something else—she could not quite make out what, but it frightened her. She drew back and pressed her hands upon her breast.
"Is Olney with you?" she asked, whispering her question in this new fear that had come upon her.
He shook his head.
"You have—left him there," she stammered, helplessly—"left him in that awful place he wrote me of—deserted him—when he needed you?"
The hollow tone of his voice as he replied was not like that with which he had greeted her.
"There was nothing else to do," he answered, simply.
She stared at him for a moment in a silence that was uncanny, then said, hoarsely:
"What is it—you mean? He—he is not—"
"Dead?—yes," he said, completing the sentence for her.
She stood there, just a moment, all the color gone from her countenance, all the light from her eyes, and then she fell forward; it would have been at his feet but that he caught her in his arms.