"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.
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