he remembered her gentle beauty, it did not seem conceivable that
behind them could lie hidden the tigerish soul of a murderess.

"That's only sentiment, though," he muttered. "Nothing more.
Beautiful women have been rotten bad through and through before
today. There's nothing for me to do but to go and inform the police,
and get them here as soon as possible. If she's innocent, I suppose
she'll be able to prove it."

He hesitated a moment, as he thought of how he had left her, bound
and a prisoner.

It seemed brutal to leave her like that while he was away, for he
would probably be some time absent. But with a hard look, he told
himself that whatever pain she suffered she must endure it.

His first and sole thought must be to bring to justice the murderers
of his unfortunate friend; and to secure, too, thereby, the success
almost certainly of his own mission.

To release her and leave her at liberty might endanger the attainment
of both those ends, and so she must remain a prisoner.

"Only," he muttered, "if she knew the attic almost over her head
held such a secret, why, didn't she take the chance I gave her of
getting hold of my revolver? That she didn't, looks as if she knew
nothing."

But then he thought again of the photograph in her room and
remembered that agony of grief to which she had been surrendering