Peter held the paper for a moment.  Then he handed it to Watts.  He only said “Watts?” but it was a cry for help and mercy as terrible as Leonore’s had been the moment before.

“Of course, chum,” cried Watts.  “Leonore, dear, it’s all right.  You mustn’t mind.  Peter’s a good man.  Better than most of us.  You mustn’t mind.”

“Don’t,” cried Leonore.  “Let me speak.  Mamma, did Peter tell you it was so?”

All were silent.

“Mamma!  Say something?  Papa!  Peter!  Will nobody speak?”

“Leonore,” said Peter, “do not doubt me.  Trust me and I will—­”

“Tell me,” cried Leonore interrupting, “was this why you didn’t come to see us?  Oh!  I see it all!  This is what mamma knew.  This is what pained you.  And I thought it was your love for—!” Leonore screamed.

“My darling,” cried Peter wildly, “don’t look so.  Don’t speak—­”

“Don’t touch me,” cried Leonore.  “Don’t.  Only go away.”  Leonore threw herself upon the rug weeping.  It was fearful the way those sobs shook her.

“It can’t be,” said Peter.  “Watts!  She is killing herself.”

But Watts had disappeared from the room.

“Only go away,” cried Leonore.  “That’s all you can do now.  There’s nothing to be done.”

Peter leaned over and picked up the prostrate figure, and laid it tenderly on the sofa.  Then he kissed the edge of her skirt.  “Yes.  That’s all I can do,” he said quietly.  “Good-bye, sweetheart.  I’ll go away.”  He looked about as if bewildered, then passed from the room to the hall, from the hall to the door, from the door to the steps.  He went down them, staggering a little as if dizzy, and tried to walk towards the Avenue.  Presently he ran into something.  “Clumsy,” said a lady’s voice.  “I beg your pardon,” said Peter mechanically.  A moment later he ran into something again.  “I beg your pardon,” said Peter, and two well-dressed girls laughed to see a bareheaded man apologize to a lamp-post.  He walked on once more, but had not gone ten paces when a hand was rested on his shoulder.

“Now then, my beauty,” said a voice.  “You want to get a cab, or I shall have to run you in.  Where do you want to go?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Peter.

“Come,” said the policeman shaking him, “where do you belong?  My God!  It’s Mr. Stirling.  Why, sir.  What’s the matter?”

“I think I’ve killed her,” said Peter.

“He’s awfully screwed,” ejaculated the policeman.  “And him of all men!  Nobody shall know.”  He hailed a passing cab, and put Peter into it.  Then he gave Peter’s office address, and also got in.  He was fined the next day for being off his beat “without adequate reasons,” but he never told where he had been.  When they reached the building, he helped Peter into the elevator.  From there he helped him to his door.  He rang the bell, but no answer came.  It was past office-hours, and Jenifer having been told that Peter would dine up-town, had departed