“The boy above is worse,” he said briefly.  “A strange doctor has just come, and but now the Herr Doktor Byrne runs to the drug store.”

The Portier’s wife shrugged her shoulders even while tears filled her eyes.

“What can one expect?” she demanded.  “The good Herr Gott has forbidden theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen.  Also the druggist has gone to visit his wife’s mother.”

“Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up.”

“And see for a moment that hussy of the streets!  Remain here.  I shall go.”

Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs.

Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor.  He found Peter’s excitement rather amusing.  So this was where Peter lived, an old house, isolated in a garden where rambled young women with soft voices.  Hello, a youngster asleep!  The boy, no doubt.

He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie.  The place was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung the indescribable odor of drugs that meant illness.  He remembered that the boy was frail.

Marie turned as he stopped in the salon doorway, and then rose, white-faced.  Across the wide spaces of the room they eyed each other.  Marie’s crisis had come.  Like all crises it was bigger than speech.  It was after a distinct pause that she spoke.

“Hast thou brought the police?”

Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart’s mental condition at that moment.  He had never loved the girl; it was with tremendous relief he had put her out of his life.  And yet—­

“So it’s old Peter now, is it?”

“No, no, not that, Walter.  He has given me shelter, that is all.  I swear it.  I look after the boy.”

“Who else is here?”

“No one else; but—­”

“Tell that rot to some one who does not know you.”

“It is true.  He never even looks at me.  I am wicked, but I do not lie.”  There was a catch of hope in her voice.  Marie knew men somewhat, but she still cherished the feminine belief that jealousy is love, whereas it is only injured pride.  She took a step toward him.  “Walter, I am sorry.  Do you hate me?” She had dropped the familiar “thou.”

Stewart crossed the room until only Peter’s table and lamp stood between them.

“I didn’t mean to be brutal,” he said, rather largely, entirely conscious of his own magnanimity.  “It was pretty bad up there and I know it.  I don’t hate you, of course.  That’s hardly possible after—­everything.”

“You—­would take me back?”

“No.  It’s over, Marie.  I wanted to know where you were, that’s all; to see that you were comfortable and not frightened.  You’re a silly child to think of the police.”

Marie put a hand to her throat.

“It is the American, of course.”

“Yes.”

She staggered a trifle, recovered, threw up her head.  “Then I wish I had killed her!”