"The man," resumed Hilary patiently, "is a poor, violent creature, who
has been wounded in the head; he is not quite responsible. He may do the
girl an injury."

"What injury?"

"He has stabbed his wife already."

"I will speak to him," said Mr. Stone.

Hilary smiled. "I am afraid that words will hardly meet the case. She
ought to disappear."

There was silence.

"My book!" said Mr. Stone.

It smote Hilary to see how white his face had become. 'It's better,' he
thought, 'to bring his will-power into play; she will never come here,
anyway, after I'm gone.'

But, unable to bear the tragedy in the old man's eyes, he touched him on
the arm.

"Perhaps she will take the risk, sir, if you ask her."

Mr. Stone did not answer, and, not knowing what more to say, Hilary
went back to the window. Miranda was slumbering lightly out there in the
speckled shade, where it was not too warm and not too cold, her cheek
resting on her paw and white teeth showing.