“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I—­I do not know.  I—­they have found me out!  They are going to hang me, or electrocute me!  I—­I couldn’t stand it!”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, I know only too well.”

“So you ran away, did you?  ’Twas a bloody cute thing to do, Margaret.  Say, your dress is wet,” he went on wonderingly.

“Yes, I was in a rowboat and had to wade ashore.”  She looked at him with a face full of wild misery.  “Oh, please go away and leave me!”

“Leave you?”

“Yes! yes!”

“I can’t do that, Margaret.”

“You must!”

“But you are not fit to be left alone.  You’re sick.”

“Never mind—­only leave me!”

“Better let me take care of you.”  And now, having stopped the barking of the mastiff, he came and sat down by her side.

“No! no!” She tried to shrink away, but was too weak to succeed.

“So you ran away, eh?  Are they after you?”

“I don’t know.  I—­I suppose so.”

“How did you get out of the house?”

“I climbed out of a window, when the nurse and the policeman were not looking.”

“Bloomin’ clever, that,” he murmured.  His eyes were watching her closely, and to himself he was saying:  “Gad, what a beauty she is, in spite of what she has suffered!”

“I am going away—­far away!” she went on, in a low voice.  “Oh, I cannot, cannot stay here.”

“You can’t travel in your condition, Margaret.”  He pulled thoughtfully at his mutton-chop whiskers.  “You let me help you.”

“You?”

“Yes.  Come, give me your arm,” and he caught hold of her, as if to assist her to arise.

“No, no!  Please leave me!” she begged.  “I can take care of myself.  Only give me the chance to get away!”

“Margaret!  You are out of your mind.”

“No, I am not.”

“I know better.  And I am not going to let you go away.  You shall go with me.”

“Oh, Mr. Styles!  Please go away.”

“No,” he answered firmly.  “Come, you have got to go with me.”

CHAPTER XXIX

A GLASS OF POISON

Margaret could do nothing but stare at the man before her.  He was heavy-set and powerful, and wont to having his own way.

“Mr. Styles—­” she began, but he put his hand over her mouth.

“You are sick—­out of your head,” he interrupted.  “I know what is best, and you must do as I say.  Come on.”  And he pulled her forward by the hand.

“Where to?”

“Not very far.”

“I—­I do not wish to go to your home.”

“I’ll not take you there, don’t fear.”

“You are going to hand me over to the—­the authorities.”

“Never!  Come.  I won’t hurt you.”

He led the way through the woods, across a small stream and past a spot where some wild berries grew.  Then they struck a trail leading up a hillside.  The place was new to her.