"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery; sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the stews. Idiote. “Besides, it is not so. He was picked up from amongst the wreckage of a broken motor on the road to Versailles last night, and we have information that a lady was with him only a few minutes before the accident occurred. He is big and powerful; one of those drinkers who show it but little outwardly. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. No prisoner except Edgeworth Bess was placed in the same cell with him. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow.
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