"Did she promise to go away?" I looked into the fire, and the odd,
elfish, frightened face of the girl with the baby in her arms looked
at me out of the bed of coals. "Did she promise to go?" I repeated.

Selwyn shook his head. "She would promise nothing. I could get
nothing out of her, could not make her talk. Harrie has been a
durned fool--perhaps worse, I don't know. I tried to help her, and I
failed."

My fingers interlocked in nervous movements. Why hadn't the girl
told Selwyn? Why was she shielding Harrie? Would she tell me or
Mrs. Mundy what she would not tell Selwyn? I could send Mrs. Mundy
to her now--could break the silence which was mystifying to her.

Selwyn's hands moved as though to rid them of all further
responsibility. "You can't do anything with people like that. She'd
rather stay on here and take the chance of seeing Harrie than go away
from temptation. I'm sorry for her, but I'm through."

"No, you're not through. Perhaps we've just begun. Maybe
there--there were reasons of which she couldn't tell you that kept
her here." I looked at him, then away. "The night we heard her
fall, heard her cry out; the night we brought her in here, you met
some one across the street when you went away. Was it--Harrie?"

In Selwyn's face came flush that crimsoned it. "Yes, it was Harrie.
I don't know what happened. He had been drinking, but I can't
believe he struck her. If he did--my God!"