"Don't you call murder, manslaughter--whatever it is--unworthy?" asked
Max, irritably.

"Not without knowing something about it," answered she. "And I think
there's generally more to be said for the man who commits murder than
for any other criminal. And--and"--her voice gave way and began to shake
with tears--"I don't care what he's done, I'm sorry for him. I--I want
to help him, or--or, at least, I want to see him to tell him so!"

Max was alarmed. Knowing the spirit and courage of his brilliant sister,
he was afraid lest she should conceive the idea of starting off herself
on some mad enterprise; so he said hastily:

"He's away now, you know. He's gone without leaving any address. Perhaps
I was wrong, after all. Perhaps when he comes back he will be himself
again, and--and everything will be cleared up. We can only wait and
see."

But this lame attempt at comfort met with no warm response from his
sister. She looked at him with a poor little attempt at a contemptuous
smile, and then, afraid of breaking down altogether, sprang up from the
arm-chair in which she had been sitting and left him to himself.

Max did not recover his usual spirits at luncheon, where everybody else
was full of mirthful anticipation of the household dance, another idea
of Mr. Wedmore's, which was to be a feature of the evening. And after
that meal, instead of offering to drive to the station to meet Miss
Appleby, as everybody had expected, Max took himself off, nobody knew
where, and did not return home until dusk.