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She expected some violence–death, perhaps, but he only looked at her silently with an expression she could not read. She felt she must scream. She swayed, her eyes were filmed with terror.

“Well! Why don’t you do it, McGill? Why don’t you–?” she cried, hysterically.

“Where is Barclay?” he inquired.

“He’s here–somewhere. We came three weeks ago–We–I didn’t know–“

He saw that she was not the woman he had known: she was frail, broken; her fluttering hands were thin and bloodless; she had no spirit.

“So! He’s got you working, eh? You’re one of these– rustlers !”

“I had to do something. All I know is stage work.”

“This ain’t stage work!”

She nodded wearily. “He made me go the–limit.”

” Made you! Did you get a divorce?”

“N-no!”

Daniels cursed so harshly that she flinched, although she had long since grown accustomed to profanity. Then he turned away, but, reading murder in his face, she seized him with fingers that were like claws.

“Wait! Don’t do that!”

“You love him, don’t you?”

“No, no! But–he’s bad now, and–and probably drunk. He’ll kill you, McGill. He’s bad, I tell you–tough–don’t you understand? He’s bad, and he’s made me bad, too, that’s why I’m here. He’s not worth it, McGill; neither am I!”

“You can’t stay in Arcadia, neither of you. I got out of Ophir and let you alone, but this is my town; I can’t leave it.”

“We’ll go,” she cried, wringing her hands; “anyhow, I’ll go, if you’ll help me. But I’ll need help–Oh, God! Yes, I’ll need help! You don’t know–You and he can settle things afterward.”

“You want to leave him?”

“I’ve tried to break away, I’ve been trying ever since that first day in Ophir, but he won’t let me. I kept trying–until I learned better; now I’m afraid. He’s broken me, Dan, but you’ll help me to leave him, won’t you?”

After a time the husband answered, more to himself than to her: “I guess I’m even with you, anyhow. You’ve gone to hell, hand in hand with him. I won’t interfere–not that way. I s’pose he beats you?”

She nodded, and saw his bearded face twitch. “Yes, and he’ll make me like these other women–you understand? I’ve fought until I’m tired, worn out. I’m in a trap, McGill, and–I’m afraid–afraid for the little soul I have left.”

“You sprung the trap,” he told her, bitterly.

But his wife had seen a way to freedom and clutched at it with desperate persistence.

“Listen! I want to talk to you. Come with me for a minute.”

“Come? Why?”

“Never mind. Oh, it’s all right. You owe me something, for I still have your name. Do this for me, please! It’s only a step.”

He yielded to her imploring eyes and followed grudgingly down the back stairs and into the night, wondering the while at his own weakness. She led the way, bareheaded, heedless of the cold. They were in that ill-favored district he had penetrated earlier in the day, but if it had been offensive then it was doubly so now, with its muffled sounds of debauchery and wickedness. She paused finally, fumbling at the door of one miserable structure, whereupon he growled:

“You live here? You’re worse than–“

“‘Sh-h!” She laid a finger on her lips as she let him in and lit a lamp, then she beckoned him toward the single rear room, shading the light with one hand and inviting him silently to peer over her shoulder.

The surprise of what he saw struck McGill dumb, for there in a crib lay the tiny lass who had befriended him that afternoon. Her lips were pouting sweetly, her face was flushed with dreams, one plump little arm was outside the covers, and just below the doubled fist McGill saw the deep dimpled bracelet of babyhood. Her presence made of these squalid surroundings a place of purity; the room became suddenly a shrine.

“The son-of-a-gun!” said McGill, inanely, then his face darkened once more. “I know her,” he announced, grimly. “What are you doing with that kid–in this hell-hole?”