“All hysterical, dear. She knew you were Hugh’s dearest friend. Came to ask whether you thought him likely to be condemned. Then broke down. You see what poor silly stuff we women are made of.”
“At any rate, you don’t fall to gibbering like a monkey at the sight of a snake,” said Gerard, accepting his wife’s explanation. “And now, what are we to do with her?”
“She won’t let me come near her, or else I would nurse her,” said Irene. “What do you think?”
“Her cab is still waiting. I could take her home to her friends. Would it hurt her?”
“No,” said Irene. “It might do her good—the drive; but you—you are so tired, dear.”
“Oh, Lord, I’d sooner take her away than have her fooling about here,” said Gerard. And he went back again to the hall.
Thus Minna was restored to the scared and anxious Bebros, who put her to bed and sent for a doctor. The hysteria, on whose brink she had long been trembling, had at last engulfed her, and hour by hour she sank deeper into the abyss, where all the horrors fought for her. But the significance of her foiled errand did not reach her consciousness.
And that night, as Gerard slept stertorously by her side, Irene lay throbbingly awake, aching with suspense. The awful peril of the man whom Gerard loved dulled her reminiscence of the strange visit of the hysterical girl. It never crossed her mind that the Lord had delivered her enemy into her hands.