time and no sympathy." It was the old Nicol Brinn who was speaking, coldly and incisively. "That—something we both know about—ever moved away from those Indian hills was a possibility I had never considered. When it was suddenly brought home to me that you, you, might be here in London, I almost went mad. But the thing that made me realize it was a horrible thing, a black, dastardly thing. See here."
He turned and crossed to where the woman was crouching, watching him with wide-open, fearful eyes. He took both her hands and looked grimly into her face. "For seven years I have walked around with a silent tongue and a broken heart. All that is finished. I am going to speak."
"Ah, no, no!" She was on her feet, her face a mask of tragedy. "You swore to me, you swore to me!"
"No oath holds good in the face of murder."
"Is that why you bring me here? Is that what your message means?"
"My message means that because of—the thing you know about—I am suspected of the murder."
"You? You?"
"Yes, I, I! Good God! when I realize what your presence here means, I wish more than ever that I had succeeded in finding death."
"Please don't say it," came a soft, pleading voice. "What can I do? What do you want me to do?"
