sciously, toward the lover whom she had dismissed, as being the one person in all the world who had soul and strength enough to rescue her from herself.
It was not greatly different with Mary Bradley. If the public, by reason of Friday's incident, had learned the secret of her heart, it would not find her so bold and shameless on the Sunday following as even to be seen outside her door. Indeed, from the hour when she had been thrust out from his presence, and had crept moaning home with her blood-stained garments on her, she had held herself in strict seclusion. Lamar had come, demanding an interview. The old woman with the wrinkled face had opened the door an inch, and had told him that Mary would not see him. He came again the following day and made his demand insistent. The old woman obeyed her instructions.
"You can't see her," she said. "Nobody can't see her."
"But I've got to see her. There's a thing I've got to settle with her."
"You can't settle with her to-day."
"To-morrow, then?"
"No, not to-morrow, nor next week, nor next year. She's through with ye."
"You infernal hag! What do you know about it? You go tell her to come out or I'll drag her out."
The old woman slammed the door in his face and locked and bolted it, and he went away cursing.
There were other callers—the sympathetic, the curious, the evil-minded. There was one answer at the door to all of them: Mrs. Bradley would see no one.
On Sunday evening, at dusk, Barry Malleson came. In response to his knock the old woman opened the door a crack.
"You can't see her," she said, before Barry had even a chance to speak. "She don't see nobody."
"Maybe," replied Barry, deprecatingly, "if she knew who it was she might be willing."
