"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.
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