The Hollow of Her Hand

  CHAPTER II

  THE PASSING OF A NIGHT

  The sheriff was right. Sara Wrandall was an extraordinary woman,if I may be permitted to modify his rather crude estimate of her.It is difficult to understand, much less to describe a nature likehers. Fine-minded, gently bred women who can go through an ordealsuch as she experienced without breaking under the strain arerare indeed. They must be wonderful. It is hard to imagine a moreheart-breaking crisis in life than the one which confronted heron this dreadful night, and yet she had faced it with a fortitudethat seems almost unholy.

  She had loved her handsome, wayward husband. He had hurt her deeplymore times than she chose to remember during the six years of theirmarried life, but she had loved him in spite of the wounds up tothe instant when she stood beside his dead body in the cold littleroom at Burton's Inn. She went there loving him as he had lived,yet prepared, almost foresworn, to loathe him as he had died, andshe left him lying there alone in that dreary room without a sparkof the old affection in her soul. Her love for him died in givingbirth to the hatred that now possessed her. While he lived itwas not in her power to control the unreasoning resistless thingthat stands for love in woman: he WAS her love, the master of herimpulses. Dead, he was an unwholesome, unlovely clod, a pallidthing to be scorned, a hulk of worthless clay. His blood was cold.He could no longer warm her with it; it could no longer kill thechill that his misdeeds cast about her tender sensitiveness; hislips and eyes never more could smile and conquer. He was a deadthing. Her love was a dead thing. They lay separate and apart. Thetie was broken. With love died the final spark of respect she hadleft for him in her tired, loyal, betrayed heart. He was at lasta thing to be despised, even by her. She despised him.

  She sent the car down the slope and across the moonless valleywith small regard for her own or her companion's safety. It swervedfrom side to side, skidded and leaped with terrifying suddenness,but held its way as straight as the bird that flies, driven by asteady hand and a mind that had no thought for peril. A sober manat her side would have been afraid; this man swayed mildly to andfro and chuckled with drunken glee.

  Her bitter thoughts were not of the dead man back there, but of thelive years that she was to bury with him: years that would neverpass beyond her ken, that would never die. He had loved her in hiswild, ruthless way. He had left her times without number in theyears gone by, but he had always come back, gaily unchastened, toremould the love that waited with dog-like fidelity for the touchof his cunning hand. But he had taken his last flight. He wouldnot come back again. It was all over. Once too often he had triedhis reckless wings. She would not have to forgive him again.Uppermost in her mind was the curiously restful thought that histroubles were over, and with them her own. A hand less forgivingthan hers had struck him dead.

  Somehow, she envied the woman to whom that hand belonged. It hadbeen her divine right to kill, and yet another took it from her.

  Back there at the inn she had said to the astonished sheriff:

  "Poor thing, if she can escape punishment for this, let it be so.I shall not help the law to kill her simply because she took itin her own hands to pay that man what she owed him. I shall not bethe one to say that he did not deserve death at her hands, whoevershe may be. No, I shall offer no reward. If you catch her, I shallbe sorry for her, Mr. Sheriff. Believe me, I bear her no grudge."

  "But she robbed him," the sheriff had cried.

  "From my point of view, Mr. Sheriff, that hasn't anything to dowith the case," was her significant reply.

  "Of course, I am not defending HIM."

  "Nor am I defending her," she had retorted. "It would appear thatshe is able to defend herself."

  Now, on the cold, trackless road, she was saying to herself thatshe did have a grudge against the woman who had destroyed the lifethat belonged to her, who had killed the thing that was hers tokill. She could not mourn for him. She could only wonder what thepoor, hunted terrified creature would do when taken and made topay for the thing she had done.

  Once, in the course of her bitter reflections, she spoke aloud ina shrill, tense voice, forgetful of the presence of the man besideher:

  "Thank God, they will see him now as I have seen him all theseyears. They will know him as they have never known him. Thank Godfor that!"

  The man looked at her stupidly and muttered something under hisbreath. She heard him, and recalling her wits, asked which turn shewas to take for the station. The fellow lopped back in the seat,too drunk to reply.

  For a moment she was dismayed, frightened. Then she resolutelyreached out and shook him by the shoulder. She had brought the carto a full stop.

  "Arouse yourself, man!" she cried. "Do you want to freeze to death?Where is the station?"

  He straightened up with an effort, and, after vainly seeking lightin the darkness, fell back again with a grunt, but managed to wavehis hand toward the left. She took the chance. In five minutes shebrought the car to a standstill beside the station. Through thewindow she saw a man with his feet cocked high, reading. He leapedto his feet in amazement as she entered the waiting-room.

  "Are you the agent?" she demanded.

  "No, ma'am. I'm simply stayin' here for the sheriff. We're lookin'for a woman--Say!" He stopped short and stared at the veiled facewith wide, excited eyes. "Gee whiz! Maybe you--"

  "No, I am not the woman you want. Do you know anything about thetrains?"

  "I guess I'll telephone to the sheriff before I--"

  "If you will step outside you will find one of the sheriff's deputiesin my automobile, helplessly intoxicated. I am Mrs. Wrandall."

  "Oh," he gasped. "I heard 'em say you were coming up to-night.Well, say! What do you think of--"

  "Is there a train in before morning?"

  "No ma'am. Seven-forty is the first."

  She waited a moment. "Then I shall have to ask you to come out andget your fellow-deputy. He is useless to me. I mean to go on inthe machine. The sheriff understands."

  The fellow hesitated.

  "I cannot take him with me, and he will freeze to death if I leavehim in the road. Will you come?"

  The man stared at her.

  "Say, IS it your husband?" he asked agape.

  She nodded her head.

  "Well, I'll go out and have a look at the fellow you've got withyou," said he, still doubtful.

  She stood in the door while he crossed over to the car and peeredat the face of the sleeper.

  "Steve Morley," he said. "Fuller'n a goat."

  "Please remove him from the car," she directed.

  Later on, as he stood looking down at the inert figure in thebig rocking chair, and panting from his labours, he heard her saypatiently:

  "And now will you be so good as to direct me to the Post-road."

  He scratched his head. "This is mighty queer, the whole business,"he declared, assailed by doubts. "Suppose you are NOT Mrs. Wrandall,but--the other one. What then?"

  As if in answer to his question, the man Morley opened his blear-eyesand tried to get to his feet.

  "Wha--what are we doin' here, Mis' Wran'all? Wha's up?"

  "Stay where you are, Steve," said the other. "It's all right."Then he went forth and pointed the way to her. "It's a long waysto Columbus Circle," he said. "I don't envy you the trip. Keepstraight ahead after you hit the Post-road." He stood there listeninguntil the whir of the motor was lost in the distance. "She'll nevermake it," he said to himself. "It's more than a strong man coulddo on roads like these. She must be crazy."

  Coming to the Post-road, she increased the speed of the car, withthe sharp wind behind her, her eyes intent on the white stretchthat leaped up in front of the lamps like a blank wall beyondwhich there was nothing but dense oblivion. But for the fact thatshe knew that this road ran straight and unobstructed into theoutskirts of New York, she might have lost courage and decision. Thenatural confidence of an experienced driver was hers. She had thedaring of one who has never met with an accident, and who trusts tothe instincts rather th
an to an actual understanding of conditions.With her, it was not a question of her own capacity and strength,but a belief in the fidelity of the engine that carried her forward.It had not occurred to her that the task of guiding that heavy,swerving thing through the unbroken road was something beyond herpowers of endurance. She often had driven it a hundred miles andmore without resting, or without losing zest in the enterprise:then why should she fear the small matter of thirty miles, evenunder the most trying of conditions?

  The restless, driving desire to be as far as possible from thathorrid sight at the inn, with all that went to make it repellant,put strength into her arms. The car swung from one side of the roadto the other, picking its way through the opaque desert, reelingfrom rut to rut past hideous shadows and deeper into the blackabyss that lay ahead. No friendly light gleamed by the wayside; theworld was black and cold and dead. She alone was on the highway,the only human creature who defied the night. Off there on eitherside people lived, and slept, and were in darkness just as she was,but not in dreadful darkness. They were not pursued by ghosts; theywere not running away from a Thing! They slept and were at peace,and their lights were out for they were not afraid in the dark.She thought of it: she was alone! No other creature was abroad--notone!

  Sharply there came to her mind the question: was she the only oneabroad in this black little world? What of the other woman? Theone who was being hunted? Where was she? And what of the ghost atHER heels?

  The car bounded over a railroad crossing. She recalled the directionsgiven by the man at the station and hastily applied the brake. Therewas another and more dangerous crossing a hundred yards ahead. Shehad been warned particularly to take it carefully, as there was asharp curve in the road beyond.

  Suddenly she jammed down the emergency brake, a startled exclamationfalling from her lips. Not twenty feet ahead, in the middle ofthe road and directly in line with the light of the lamps, stooda black, motionless figure--the figure of a woman whose head waslowered and whose arms hung limply at her sides.

  The woman in the car bent forward over the wheel, staring hard. Manyseconds passed. At last the forlorn object in the roadway liftedher face and looked vacantly into the glare of the lamps. Her eyeswere wide-open, her face a ghastly white.

  "God in heaven!" struggled from the stiffening lips of Sara Wrandall.Her fingers tightened on the wheel.

  She knew. This was the woman!

  The long brown ulster; the limp, fluttering veil! "A woman aboutyour size and figure," the sheriff had said.

  The figure swayed and then moved a few steps forward. Blinded bythe lights, she bent her head and shielded her eyes with her handthe better to glimpse the occupant of the car.

  "Are you looking for me?" she cried out shrilly, at the same timespreading her arms as if in surrender. It was almost a wail.

  Mrs. Wrandall caught her breath. Her heart began to beat once more.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" she cried out, without knowingwhat she said.

  The girl started. She had not expected to hear the voice of a woman.She staggered to the side of the road, out of the line of light.

  "I--I beg your pardon," she cried,--it was like a wail ofdisappointment,--"I am sorry to have stopped you."

  "Come here," commanded the other, still staring.

  The unsteady figure advanced. Halting beside the car, she leanedacross the spare tires and gazed into the eyes of the driver. Theirfaces were not more than a foot apart, their eyes were narrowed intense scrutiny.

  "What do you want?" repeated Mrs. Wrandall, her voice hoarse andtremulous.

  "I am looking for an inn. It must be near by. I do--"

  "An inn?" with a start.

  "I do not recall the name. It is not far from a village, in thehills."

  "Do you mean Burton's?"

  "Yes. That's it. Can you direct me?" The voice of the girl wasfaint; she seemed about to fall.

  "It is six or eight miles from here," said Mrs. Wrandall, stilllooking in wonder at the miserable nightfarer.

  The girl's head sank; a moan of despair came through her lips,ending in a sob.

  "So far as that?" she murmured. Then she drew herself up with afine show of resolution. "But I must not stop here. Thank you."

  "Wait!" cried the other. The girl turned to her once more. "Is--isit a matter of life or death?"

  There was a long silence. "Yes. I must find my way there. Itis--death."

  Sara Wrandall laid her heavily gloved hand on the slim fingers thattouched the tire.

  "Listen to me," she said, a shrill note of resolve ringing in hervoice. "I am going to New York. Won't you let me take you with me?"

  The girl drew back, wonder and apprehension struggling for themastery of her eyes.

  "But I am bound the other way. To the inn. I must go on."

  "Come with me," said Sara Wrandall firmly. "You must not go backthere. I know what has happened there. Come! I will take care ofyou. You must not go to the inn."

  "You know?" faltered the girl.

  "Yes. You poor thing!" There was infinite pity in her voice.

  The girl laid her head on her arms.

  Mrs. Wrandall sat above her, looking down, held mute by warringemotions. The impossible had come to pass. The girl for whom thewhole world would be searching in a day or two, had stepped outof the unknown and, by the most whimsical jest of fate, into thecustody of the one person most interested of all in that self-sameworld. It was unbelievable. She wondered if it were not a dream,or the hallucination of an overwrought mind. Spurred by the suddendoubt as to the reality of the object before her, she stretchedout her hand and touched the girl's shoulder.

  Instantly she looked up. Her fingers sought the friendly hand andclasped it tightly.

  "Oh, if you will only take me to the city with you! If you onlygive me the chance," she cried hoarsely. "I don't know what impulsewas driving me back there. I only know I could not help myself.You really mean it? You WILL take me with you?"

  "Yes. Don't be afraid. Come! Get in," said the woman in the carrapidly. "You--you are real?"

  The girl did not hear the strange question. She was hurrying aroundto the opposite side of the car. As she crossed before the lamps,Mrs. Wrandall noticed with dulled interest that her garments werecovered with mud; her small, comely hat was in sad disorder; loosewisps of hair fluttered with the unsightly veil. Her hands, sherecalled, were clad in thin suede gloves. She would be half-frozen.She had been out in all this terrible weather,--perhaps since thehour of her flight from the inn.

  The odd feeling of pity grew stronger within her. She made noeffort to analyse it, nor to account for it. Why should she pitythe slayer of her husband? It was a question unasked, unconsidered.Afterwards she was to recall this hour and its strange impulses,and to realise that it was not pity, but mercy that moved her todo the extraordinary thing that followed.

  Trembling all over, her teeth chattering, her breath coming inshort little moans, the girl struggled up beside her and fell backin the seat. Without a word, Sara Wrandall drew the great buffalorobe over her and tucked it in about her feet and legs and far upabout her body, which had slumped down in the seat.

  "You are very, very good," chattered the girl, almost inaudibly."I shall never forget--" She did not complete the sentence, butsat upright and fixed her gaze on her companion's face. "You--youare not doing this just to turn me over to--to the police? Theymust be searching for me. You are not going to give me up to them,are you? There will be a reward I--"

  "There is no reward," said Sara Wrandall sharply. "I do not mean togive you up. I am simply giving you a chance to get away. I havealways felt sorry for the fox when the time for the kill drew near.That's the way I feel."

  "Oh, thank you! Thank you! But what am I saying? Why should I permityou to do this for me? I meant to go back there and have it overwith. I know I can't escape. It will have to come, it is bound tocome. Why put it off? Let them take me, let them do what they willwith me. I--"

  "Hush! We'll see. Fir
st of all, understand me: I shall not turn youover to the police. I will give you the chance. I will help you.I can do no more than that."

  "But why should you help me? I--I--Oh, I can't let you do it! Youdo not understand. I--have--committed--a--terrible--" she brokeoff with a groan.

  "I understand," said the other, something like grimness in her leveltones. "I have been tempted more than once myself." The enigmaticremark made no impression on the listener.

  "I wonder how long ago it was that it all happened," muttered thegirl, as if to herself. "It seems ages,--oh, such ages."

  "Where have you been hiding since last night?" asked Mrs. Wrandall,throwing in the clutch. The car started forward with a jerk, kickingup the snow behind it.

  "Was it only last night? Oh, I've been--" The thought of hersufferings from exposure and dread was too much for the wretchedcreature. She broke out in a soft wail.

  "You've been out in all this weather?" demanded the other.

  "I lost my way. In the hills back there. I don't know where I was."

  "Had you no place of shelter?"

  "Where could I seek shelter? I spent the day in the cellar of afarmer's house. He didn't know I was there. I have had no food."

  "Why did you kill that man?"

  "There was nothing left for me to do but that."

  "And why did you rob him?"

  "Ah, I had ample time to think of all that. You may tell theofficers they will find everything hidden in that farmhouse cellar.God knows I did not want them. I am not a thief. I'm not so bad asthat."

  Mrs. Wrandall marvelled. "Not so bad as that!" And she was amurderess, a wanton!

  "You are hungry? You must be famished."

  "No, I am not hungry. I have not thought of food." She said it insuch a way that the other knew what her whole mind had been givenover to since the night before.

  A fresh impulse seized her. "You shall have food and a place whereyou can sleep--and rest," she said. "Now please don't say anythingmore. I do not want to know too much. The least you say to-night,the better for--for both of us."

  With that she devoted all of her attention to the car, increasingthe speed considerably. Far ahead she could see twinkling, will-o'-the-wisplights, the first signs of thickly populated districts. They werestill eight or ten miles from the outskirts of the city and theway was arduous. She was conscious of a sudden feeling of fatigue.The chill of the night seemed to have made itself felt with abrupt,almost stupefying force. She wondered if she could keep her strength,her courage,--her nerves.

  The girl was English. Mrs. Wrandall was convinced of the fact almostimmediately. Unmistakably English and apparently of the cultivatedtype. In fact, the peculiarities of speech that determines the Londonshow-girl or music-hall character were wholly lacking. Her voice,her manner, even under such trying conditions, were characteristicof the English woman of cultivation. Despite the dreadful strainunder which she laboured, there were evidences of that curiousserenity which marks the English woman of the better classes: aninborn composure, a calm orderliness of the emotions. Mrs. Wrandallwas conscious of a sense of surprise, of a wonder that increased asher thoughts resolved themselves into something less chaotic thanthey were at the time of contact with this visible condition.

  For a mile or more, she sent the car along with reckless disregardfor comfort or safety. Her mind was groping for something tangiblein the way of intentions. What was she to do with this creature?What was to become of her? At what street corner should she turnher adrift? The idea of handing her over to the police did notenter her thoughts for an instant. Somehow she felt that the girlwas a stranger to the city. She could not explain the feeling, yetit was with her and very persistent. Of course, there was a homeof some sort, or lodgings, or friends, but would the girl dare showherself in familiar haunts?

  She had said to the sheriff that she hoped the slayer of her husbandwould never be caught. She recalled her words, and she remembered howsincere she had been in uttering them. But she had not figured onherself as an instrument in furthering the hope to the point of actualrealisation. What could be more incongruous, more theatric,--yes,more bizarre, than her attitude at this moment? It seemed impossiblethat this shrinking, inert heap at her side was a living thing; awoman who had slain a fellow creature, and that creature the manwho had been her husband for six years. It seemed utterly beyondsense or reason that she should be helping this murderess to escape,that she should be showing her the slightest sign of mercy. Andyet, it was all true. She was helping her, she was befriending her.

  She found herself wondering why the poor wretch had not made waywith herself. Escape seemed out of the question. That must have beenclear to her from the beginning, else why was she going back thereto give herself up? What better way out of it all than self-destruction?Sara Wrandall reached a sudden conclusion. She would advise the girlto leave the car when they reached the centre of a certain bridgethat spanned the river! No one would find her...

  Even as the thought took shape in her mind, she experienced a greatsense of awe, so overwhelming that she cried out with the horrorof it. She turned her head for a quick glance at the mute, wretchedface showing white above the robe, and her heart ached with suddenpity for her. The thought of that slender, alive thing going downto the icy waters--her soul turned sick with the dread of it!

  In that instant, Sara Wrandall--no philanthropist, no sentimentalist--madeup her mind to give this erring one more than an even chance forsalvation. She would see her safely across THAT bridge and manyothers. God had directed the footsteps of this girl so that sheshould fall in with the one best qualified to pass judgment onher. It was in that person's power to save her or destroy her. Thecommandment, "Thou shalt not kill," took on a broader meaning asshe considered the power that was hers: the power to kill.

  Back of all these finely human impulses was the mysterious arbiterthat makes great decisions for all of us, from which there can beno appeal, and which brooks no argument: Self. Self it was thatput a single question to her and answered it as well: what personalgrievance had she against this unhappy girl? None whatever. Self itwas therefore that slyly thanked her for an unspeakable blessing:she had brought to an end not only the life of her husband but thefalse position she herself had been obliged to maintain through amistaken sense of duty and self-respect. And who was to say, outsidethe law, that this frail girl had not just cause to slay?

  A great relaxation came over Sara Wrandall. It was as if everynerve, every muscle in her body had reached the snapping pointand suddenly had given way. For a moment her hands were weak andpowerless; her head fell forward. In an instant she conquered,--butonly partially,--the strange feeling of lassitude. Then she realisedhow tired she was, how fiercely the strain had told on her bodyand brain, how much she had really suffered.

  Her blurred eyes turned once more for a look at the girl, whosat there, just as she had been sitting for miles, her white facestanding out with almost unnatural clearness, and as rigid as thatof the sphinx.

  The girl spoke. "Do they hang women in this country?"

  Mrs. Wrandall started. "In some of the States," she replied, andwas unable to account for the swift impulse to evade.

  "But in this State?" persisted the other, almost without a movementof the lips.

  "They send them to the electric chair--sometimes," said Mrs.Wrandall.

  There was a long silence between them, broken finally by the girl.

  "You have been very kind to me, madam. I have no means of expressingmy gratitude. I can only say that I shall bless you to my dyinghour. May I trouble you to set me down at the bridge? I remembercrossing one. I shall be able to--"

  "No!" cried Mrs. Wrandall shrilly, divining the other's intentionat once. "You shall not do that. I too thought of that as a way outof it for you, but--no, it must not be that. Give me a few minutesto think. I will find a way."

  The girl turned toward her. Her eyes were burning.

  "Do you mean that you will help me to get away?" she cried, slowly,incre
dulously.

  "Let me think!"

  "You will lay yourself liable--"

  "Let me think, I say."

  "But I mean to surrender myself to--"

  "An hour ago you meant to do it, but what were you thinking of tenminutes ago? Not surrender. You were thinking of the bridge. Listento me now: I am sure that I can save you. I do not know all the--allthe circumstances connected with your association with--with thatman back there at the inn. Twenty-four hours passed before theywere able to identify him. It is not unlikely that to-morrow mayput them in possession of the name of the woman who went with himto that place. They do not know it to-night, of that I am positive.You covered your trail too well. But you must have been seen withhim during the day or the night--"

  The other broke in eagerly: "I don't believe any one knows thatI--that I went out there with him. He arranged it very--carefully.Oh, what a beast he was!" The bitterness of that wail caused thewoman beside her to cry out as if hurt by a sharp, almost unbearablepain. For an instant she seemed about to lose control of herself.The car swerved and came dangerously near to leaving the road.

  A full minute passed before she could trust herself to speak. Thenit was with a deep hoarseness in her voice.

  "You can tell me about it later on, not now. I don't want to hearit. Tell me, where do you live?"

  The girl's manner changed so absolutely that there could be butone inference: she was acutely suspicious. Her lips tightened andher figure seemed to stiffen in in the seat.

  "Where do you live?" repeated the other sharply.

  "Why should I tell you that? I do not know you. You--"

  "You are afraid of me?"

  "Oh, I don't know what to say, or what to do," came from the lipsof the hunted one. "I have no friends, no one to turn to, no one tohelp me. You--you can't be so heartless as to lead me on and thengive me up to--God help me, I--I should not be made to suffer forwhat I have done. If you only knew the circumstances. If you onlyknew--"

  "Stop!" cried the other, in agony.

  The girl was bewildered. "You are so strange. I don't understand--"

  "We have but two or three miles to go," interrupted Mrs. Wrandall."We must think hard and--rapidly. Are you willing to come with meto my hotel? You will be safe there for the present. To-morrow wecan plan something for the future."

  "If I can only find a place to rest for a little while," began theother.

  "I shall be busy all day, you will not be disturbed. But leave therest to me. I shall find a way."

  It was nearly three o'clock when she brought the car to a stop infront of a small, exclusive hotel not far from Central Park. Thestreet was dark and the vestibule was but dimly lighted. No attendantwas in sight.

  "Slip into this," commanded Mrs. Wrandall, beginning to divestherself of her own fur coat. "It will cover your muddy garments. Iam quite warmly dressed. Don't worry. Be quick. For the time beingyou are my guest here. You will not be questioned. No one need knowwho you are. It will not matter if you look distressed. You havejust heard of the dreadful thing that has happened to me. You--"

  "Happened to you?" cried the girl, drawing the coat about her.

  "A member of my family has died. They know it in the hotel by thistime. I was called to the death bed--to-night. That is all you willhave to know."

  "Oh, I am sorry--"

  "Come, let us go in. When we reach my rooms, you may order food anddrink. You must do it, not I. Please try to remember that it is Iwho am suffering, not you."

  A sleepy night watchman took them up in the elevator. He was noteven interested. Mrs. Wrandall did not speak, but leaned ratherheavily on the arm of her companion. The door had no sooner closedbehind them when the girl collapsed. She sank to the floor in aheap.

  "Get up!" commanded her hostess sharply. This was not the time forsoft, persuasive words. "Get up at once. You are young and strong.You must show the stuff you are made of now if you ever mean toshow it. I cannot help you if you quail."

  The girl looked up piteously, and then struggled to her feet. Shestood before her protectress, weaving like a frail reed in thewind, pallid to the lips.

  "I beg your pardon," she murmured. "I will not give way like thatagain. I dare say I'm faint. I have had no food, no rest--but nevermind that now. Tell me what I am to do. I will try to obey."

  "First of all, get out of those muddy, frozen things you have on."

  Mrs. Wrandall herself moved stiffly and with unsteady limbs asshe began to remove her own outer garments. The girl mechanicallyfollowed her example. She was a pitiable object in the stronglight of the electrolier. Muddy from head to foot, water-stainedand bedraggled, her face streaked with dirt, she was the mostunattractive creature one could well imagine.

  These women, so strangely thrown together by Fate, maintainedan unbroken silence during the long, fumbling process of partialdisrobing. They scarcely looked at one another, and yet they wereacutely conscious of the interest each felt in the other. Thegrateful warmth of the room, the abrupt transition from gloom andcheerlessness to comfortable obscurity, had a more pronounced effecton the stranger than on her hostess.

  "It is good to feel warm once more," she said, an odd timidness inher manner. "You are very good to me."

  They were in Mrs. Wrandall's bed-chamber, just off the littlesitting-room. Three or four trunks stood against the walls.

  "I dismissed my maid on landing. She robbed me," said Mrs. Wrandall,voicing the relief that was uppermost in her mind. She opened acloset door and took out a thick eider-down robe, which she tossedacross a chair. "Now call up the office and say that you are speakingfor me. Say to them that I must have something to eat, no matterwhat the hour may be. I will get out some clean underwear for you,and--Oh, yes; if they ask about me, say that I am cold and ill.That is sufficient. Here is the bath. Please be as quick about itas possible."

  Moving as if in a dream, the girl did as she was told. Twenty minuteslater there was a knock at the door. A waiter appeared with a trayand service table. He found Mrs. Wrandall lying back in a chair,attended by a slender young woman in a pink eiderdown dressing-gown,who gave hesitating directions to him. Then he was dismissed witha handsome tip, produced by the same young woman.

  "You are not to return for these things," she said as he went out.

  In silence she ate and drank, her hostess looking on with gloomyinterest. It was no shock to Mrs. Wrandall to find that the girl,who was no more than twenty-two or three, possessed unusual beauty.Her great eyes were blue,--the lovely Irish blue,--her skin wasfair and smooth, her features regular and of the delicate mouldthat defines the well-bred gentlewoman at a glance. Her hair, nowin order, was dark and thick and lay softly about her small earsand neck. She was not surprised, I repeat, for she had never knownChallis Wrandall to show interest in any but the most attractiveof her sex. She found herself smiling bitterly as she looked.

  To herself she was saying: "It isn't so hard to bear when I realisethat he betrayed me for one who is so much more beautiful than I.He loved me because I am beautiful. His every defection proves it.The others have all been beautiful. And to think that this gentle,slender creature should have been the one to give him his death-blow.It seems incredible. If it had been struck by some outraged husband,strong of arm and fierce with vengeance, I could understand. But--butthis young, pretty, soft-eyed thing!"

  But who may know the thoughts of the other occupant of that littlesitting-room? Who can put herself in the place of that despairing,hunted creature who knew that blood was on the hands with whichshe ate, and whose eyes were filled with visions of the death-chair?

  So great was her fatigue that long before she finished the meal hertired lids began to droop, her head to nod in spasmodic surrendersto an overpowering desire for sleep. Suddenly she dropped the forkfrom her fingers and sank back in the comfortable chair, her headresting against the soft, upholstered back. Her lids fell, her handsdropped to the arms of the chair. A fine line appeared between herdark eyebrows,--indicative of pain.

/>   For many minutes Sara Wrandall watched the haggardness deepen inthe face of the unconscious sleeper. Then, even as she wonderedat the act, she went over and took up one of the slim hands in herown. The hand of an aristocrat! It lay limp in hers, and helpless.Long, tapering fingers and delicately pink with the return ofwarmth.

  Rousing herself from the mute contemplation of her charge, she shookthe girl's shoulder. Instantly she was awake and staring, alarm inher dazed, bewildered eyes.

  "You must go to bed," said Mrs. Wrandall quietly. "Don't be afraid.No one will think of coming here."

  The girl arose. As she stood before her benefactress, she heardher murmur as if from afar-off: "Just about your size and figure,"and wondered not a little.

  "You may sleep late. I have many things to do and you will not bedisturbed. Come, take off your clothes and get into my bed. To-morrowwe will plan further--"

  "But, madam," cried the girl, "I cannot take your bed. Where areyou to--"

  "If I feel like lying down, I shall lie there beside you."

  The girl stared. "Lie beside ME?"

  "Yes. Oh, I am not afraid of you, child. You are not a monster.You are just a poor, tired--"

  "Oh, please don't! Please!" cried the other, tears rushing to hereyes. She raised Mrs. Wrandall's hand to her lips and covered itwith kisses.

  Long after she went to sleep, Sara Wrandall stood beside the bed,looking down at the pain-stricken face, and tried to solve theproblem that suddenly had become a part of her very existence.

  "It is not friendship," she argued fiercely. "It is not charity,it is not humanity. It's the debt I owe, that's all. She did thething for me that I could not have done myself because I loved him.I owe her something for that."

  Later on she turned her attention to the trunks. Her decision wasmade. With ruthless hands she dragged gown after gown from the"innovations" and cast them over chairs, on the floor, across thefoot of the bed: smart things from Paris and Vienna; ball gowns,street gowns, tea gowns, lingerie, blouses, hats, gloves and allof the countless things that a woman of fashion and means indulgesherself in when she goes abroad for that purpose and no other tospeak of. From the closets she drew forth New York "tailor-suits"and other garments.

  Until long after six o'clock she busied herself over this hugepile of costly raiment, portions of which she had worn but once ortwice, some not at all, selecting certain dresses, hats, stockings,etc., each of which she laid carelessly aside: an imposing pile ofmany hues, all bright and gay and glittering. In another heap shelaid the sombre things of black: a meagre assortment as comparedto the other.

  Then she stood back and surveyed the two heaps with tired eyes, acurious, almost scornful smile on her lips. "There!" she said witha sigh. "The black pile is mine, the gay pile is yours," she wenton, turning toward the sleeping girl. "What a travesty!"

  Then she gathered up the soiled garments her charge had worn andcast them into the bottom of a trunk, which she locked. Laying outa carefully selected assortment of her own garments for the girl'suse when she arose, Mrs. Wrandall sat down beside the bed andwaited, knowing that sleep would not come to her.