"In order to insure for myself another of your most interesting
visits, I suppose, Miss--not Omar? All right. . . . Tell me, can
I do nothing for you? Aren't you sick of this sort of life?"

"Get Tom out of jail."

He shook his head.

"I'm too good a friend of yours to do you such a turn."

"I don't want any friend that isn't Tom's."

He threw the pistol from him and pulled himself up, till he sat
looking at me.

"In heaven's name, what can you see in a fellow like that?"

"What's that to you?" I turned to go.

"To me? Things of that sort are nothing, of course, to me--me,
that `luckless Pot He marr'd in making.' But, tell me--can a girl
like you tell the truth? What made you hesitate when that fellow
told you with his eyes to murder me?"

"How did you know?"

"How? The glass. See over yonder. I could watch every expression
on both your faces. What was it--what was it, child, that made
you--oh, if you owe me a single heart-beat of gratitude, tell me
the truth!"