“Yes.”

“Give it back to me!” she implored, like a bereft child.  “Oh, give it to me!”

“Why do you want to kill yourself?”

She looked at him in dumb despair.

“How did you get here?” he demanded.

“Your fire escape.”

“And to that from the garden wall, I suppose?  So you were Ely Crouch’s companion,” he cried with a changed voice.

“Don’t,” she shuddered, throwing her right arm over her face.

“I beg your pardon,” he said gently.  “Take a swallow of this water.  What’s the matter with your arm?  Are you hurt?”

“No.”  Her eyes would not meet his.  They were fixed obstinately upon the pocket into which he had dropped the poison.

“It’s incredible!” he burst out.  “You with your youth and loveliness!  With everything that makes life sweet for yourself and others.  What madness—­” He broke off and his voice softened into persuasion.  “We were almost friends, once.  Can’t I—­won’t you let me help?  Don’t you think you can trust me?”

She raised her eyes to his, and he read in them hopeless terror.  “Yes, I could trust you.  But there is only one help for me now.  And you’ve taken it from me.”

“Who can tell?  You’ve been badly frightened,” he said in as soothing a tone as he could command.  “Try to believe that no harm can come to you here, and that I—­I would give the blood of my heart to save you from harm or danger.  You said you could trust me.  What was your errand with Ely Crouch?”

“Money.”

“Money!” he repeated, drawing back.

“It was our own; my sister’s and mine.  Mr. Crouch had it.  He had managed our affairs since my father’s death.  I could never get an accounting from him.  To-day the doctor told me that Alice must go away at once for an operation.  And to-day Mr. Crouch made this appointment for to-night.”

“Didn’t you know his reputation?  Weren’t you afraid?”

“I didn’t think of fear.  When I told him how matters stood, he offered me money, but—­but—­Oh, I can’t tell you!”

“No need,” he said quickly.  “I know what he is.  I was joking when I spoke of killing him, a little while ago.  By God, I wish I had killed him!  It isn’t too late now.”

“It is too late.”

Her eyes, dilated, were fixed upon his.

“Why?  How—­too late?” he stammered.

“I killed him.”

“You!  You—­killed—­Ely—­Crouch?”

“He had a cane,” she said, in a hurried, flat, half-whisper.  “When he caught at me, I tried to get it to defend myself.  The handle pulled out.  There was a dagger on it.  He came at me again.  I didn’t realize what I was doing.  All I could see was that hateful face drawing nearer.  Then it changed and he seemed to dissolve into a hideous heap.  I didn’t mean to kill him.”  Her voice rose in the struggle against hysteria.  “God knows, I didn’t mean to kill him.”