“You will take my life,” she said, “as you did Pauline’s.  I know your intention as well as I know your power, and I ask nothing, only that you finish your work without needless delay and let me be at peace.”

He made no reply—­merely let go the hand that he was holding, removed the other from his shoulder, and turning away descended the steps leading to the garden and disappeared in the shrubbery.  But a moment later I heard, seemingly from a great distance, his fine clear voice in a barbaric chant, which as I listened brought before some inner spiritual sense a consciousness of some far, strange land peopled with beings having forbidden powers.  The song held me in a kind of spell, but when it had died away I recovered and instantly perceived what I thought an opportunity.  I walked out of my shadow to where the girl stood.  She turned and stared at me with something of the look, it seemed to me, of a hunted hare.  Possibly my intrusion had frightened her.

“Miss Maynard,” I said, “I beg you to tell me who that man is and the nature of his power over you.  Perhaps this is rude in me, but it is not a matter for idle civilities.  When a woman is in danger any man has a right to act.”

She listened without visible emotion—­almost I thought without interest, and when I had finished she closed her big blue eyes as if unspeakably weary.

“You can do nothing,” she said.

I took hold of her arm, gently shaking her as one shakes a person falling into a dangerous sleep.

“You must rouse yourself,” I said; “something must be done and you must give me leave to act.  You have said that that man killed your sister, and I believe it—­that he will kill you, and I believe that.”

She merely raised her eyes to mine.

“Will you not tell me all?” I added.

“There is nothing to be done, I tell you—­nothing.  And if I could do anything I would not.  It does not matter in the least.  We shall be here only two days more; we go away then, oh, so far!  If you have observed anything, I beg you to be silent.”

“But this is madness, girl.”  I was trying by rough speech to break the deadly repose of her manner.  “You have accused him of murder.  Unless you explain these things to me I shall lay the matter before the authorities.”

This roused her, but in a way that I did not like.  She lifted her head proudly and said:  “Do not meddle, sir, in what does not concern you.  This is my affair, Mr. Moran, not yours.”

“It concerns every person in the country—­in the world,” I answered, with equal coldness.  “If you had no love for your sister I, at least, am concerned for you.”

“Listen,” she interrupted, leaning toward me.  “I loved her, yes, God knows!  But more than that—­beyond all, beyond expression, I love him.  You have overheard a secret, but you shall not make use of it to harm him.  I shall deny all.  Your word against mine—­it will be that.  Do you think your ‘authorities’ will believe you?”