Godfrey felt that he was groping toward the light. But there was another mystery more impenetrable still. What was it had nerved her to brave the tittle-tattle of the world, to endanger her good name, to run she knew not what risk of indignity and insult? A love affair? Bah! To suppose her capable of such an assignation was preposterous. One had only to look at her to see that. And yet, what other reason could have brought her to this place, alone, on such a night…
Suddenly she felt the scrutiny he bent upon her, and raised her eyes to his. Then she straightened up, quickly, still looking at him, and he saw a flash of defiance in her eyes. Plainly, she did not fear him; he fancied there were few things in the world she did fear.
“May I see you to your cab, Miss Croydon?” he asked.
“To my cab?” she repeated, half-rising. “I may go, then? I am free? You have not”
“Betrayed you?” he finished, as she stopped suddenly. “No; I don’t intend to. Whether you know the man yonder or not, I don’t for an instant believe you killed him.”
“Oh, I didn’t!” she cried. “I did my best to save him. But it was done so quickly—I didn’t understand until too late.”
“Nevertheless,” continued Godfrey evenly, “I think you’re wrong in trying to protect the scoundrel who did.”
The colour faded suddenly from her face,
“To protect him?” she faltered.
