front of her dress was disordered. Sydney Barnes was bending close over her. Wrayson pushed him roughly away.
"You can wait, at least, until she is well," he said contemptuously.
Sydney Barnes was wholly unabashed. He watched Wrayson pour brandy between the girl's lips, bathe her temples, and chafe her hands. All the time he stood doggedly waiting close by. No considerations of decency or humanity would weigh with him for one single second. The fever of his great desire still ran like fire through his veins. He did not think of the girl as a human creature at all. Simply there was a pair of lips there which might point out to him the way to his Paradise.
She opened her eyes at last. Sydney Barnes came a step nearer, but Wrayson pushed him once more roughly away.
"You are feeling better?" he asked kindly.
She nodded, and struggled up into a sitting posture.
"Tell me," she said, "how did he die? It must have been quite sudden. Was it an accident?—or—or——"
He saw the terror in her eyes, and he spoke quickly. All the time he found himself wondering how it was that she was guessing at the truth.
"We are afraid," he said "that he was murdered. It is surprising that you did not read about it in the papers."
She shook her head.
"I do not read much," she said, "and the name was different. Who was it—that killed him?"
"No one knows," he answered.
