ce. I say, very quietly, ''I shall be no use to you, in a madhouse.''
''You are no use to me now, while you delay! Be careful I don''t grow tired of this scheme. I shan''t be kind to you, then.''
And is this kindness?'' I say.
We have moved, at last, into shadow, and I see his look: it is honest, amused, amazed. He says: ''This is dreadful villainy, Maud. When did I ever call it anything else?''
We stop, close as sweethearts. His tone has grown light again, but his eye is hard—quite hard. I feel, for the first time, what it would be to be afraid of him.
He turns and calls to Sue. ''Not far now, Suky! We are almost there, I think.'' To me he murmurs: ''I shall need some minutes with her, alone.''
''To secure her,'' I say. As you have me.''
''That work is done,'' he says complacently; ''and she, at least, sticks better.—What?'' I have shuddered, or my look has changed. ''You don''t suspect her of qualms? Maud? You don''t suppose her weakening, or playing us false? Is that why you hesitate?'' I shake my head. ''Well,'' he goes on, ''all the more reason for me to see her, to find out how she thinks we do. Have her come to me, today or tomorrow. Find out some way, will you? Be sly.''
He puts his smoke-stained finger to his mouth. Presently Sue comes, and rests at my side. She is flushed from the weight of the bags. Her cloak still billows, her hair still whips, and I want more than anything to draw her to me, to touch and tidy her. I think I begin to, I think I half-reach for her; then I become conscious of Richard and his shrewd, considering gaze. I cross my arms before me and turn away.