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She stretched up her trembling hand.

“I’m very glad to see you,” she said weakly. “You got my message? It–it–I hope it didn’t annoy you.”

“It didn’t,” said West.

His voice was curt and strained. His fingers had closed very tightly upon her hand.

“Sit down,” murmured Cynthia. “No, don’t let go. It helps me some to have you hold my hand. Mr. West, I’ve got to tell you something–something that will make you really angry. I’m rather frightened, too. It’s because I’m sick. You–you must just make allowances.”

A light kindled in West’s eyes that shone like a blue flame, but still he held himself rigid, inflexible as a figure hewn in granite.

“Pray don’t distress yourself, Miss Mortimer,” he said stiffly. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait till you are better before you go any further?”

“I never shall be better,” Cynthia rejoined, a tremor of passion in her voice, “I never shall go any further, unless you hear me out to-night.”

West frowned a little, but still that strange light shone in his steady eyes.

“I am quite at your service,” he said, “either now or at any future time. But if this interview should make you worse—-“

“Oh, shucks!” said Cynthia, with a ghostly little smile. “Don’t talk through your hat, Mr. West!”

West became silent. He was still holding her hand in a warm, close grasp that never varied.

“Let’s get to business,” said Cynthia, with an effort to be brisk. “It begins with a confession. You know better than any one how I managed to hurt my hand so badly. But even you don’t know everything. Even you never suspected that–that it wasn’t an accident at all; that, in fact, I did it on purpose.”

She broke off for a moment, avoiding his eyes, but clinging tightly to his hand.

“I did it,” she went on breathlessly–“I did it because I heard you in the drive below, and I wanted to attract your attention. I couldn’t see you, but I knew it was you. I was just going to spring the trap with my foot, and then–and then I heard you, and I stooped down–it came to me to do it, and I never stopped to think–I stooped down and put my hand in the way. I never thought–I never thought it would hurt so frightfully, or that it could come to this.”

She was crying as she ended, crying piteously; while West sat like a stone image, gazing at her.

“Oh, do speak to me!” she sobbed. “Do say something! Do you know what they want to do? But I won’t let them–I won’t let them! It–it’s too dreadful a thing to happen to a woman. I can’t bear it. I won’t bear it. It will be much easier to die. But you shall know the truth first.”

“Cynthia, stop!” It was West’s voice at last, but not as she had ever heard it. It came from him hoarse and desperate, as though wrung by the extreme of torture. He had sunk to his knees by the bed. His face was nearer to hers than it had ever been before. “Don’t cry!” he begged her huskily. “Don’t cry! Why do you tell me this if it hurts you to tell me?”

“Because I want you to know!” gasped Cynthia. “Wait! Let me finish! I wanted–to see–if–if you really cared for me. I thought–if you did–you wouldn’t be able to go on pretending. But–but–you managed to–somehow–after all.”

She ended, battling with her tears; and West, the strong, the cold, the cynical, bowed his head upon her hand and groaned.

“It was for–your own sake,” he muttered brokenly, without looking up.

“I know,” whispered back Cynthia. “That was just what made it so impossible to bear. Because, you see, I cared, too.”

He was silent, breathing heavily.

Cynthia watched his bent head wistfully, but she did not speak again till she had mastered her own weakness.

“Mr. West,” she said softly at length.

He stirred, pressing her hand more tightly to his eyes.