The woman stepped forward. He hurriedly drew the child from her.... Again she smiled, a little.... There were some things that she understood, that were of the Known. The child was speaking: "And, daddy," she said, "mother dear isn't a bit well. Mawkins and I are dreadfully worried about her." "What's the matter with mother?" he asked, quickly. "Tell me!" The child shook her head. "She cries most all the time," she replied. "And when I ask her what the matter is, she just shakes her head and says, 'Nothing, dearie. Mother's tired.' But people don't cry because they're tired, do they, daddy?" He did not answer. Head sunk in hands, the bitterness of it all--the awful, ghastly, horror of the things that he had done--was obsessing him body and soul and brain and heart. The fires of the uttermost hell were flaring through his very being. Then it was that the woman beckoned to the child of the man that belonged to her. "Come here, dear," she said, voice modulated. The man might not hear yet. The child hesitated. "I'd rather not," she replied. The woman bent forward, swiftly, undulatingly, as a snake strikes. She seized the child, clasping her to her. And once, twice, thrice, she kissed her, on the lips.... The man awoke. He staggered to his feet.... Through the door came Blake. He, too, saw; and while he did not understand all, he understood enough. Across the room he sprang. He tore the child from the now yielding arms of the woman! Holding tight against him the little one that he loved as his own, he turned savagely upon the man who had once been his friend. "To think that any human thing could sink so low!" he almost hissed.... And he was gone, taking with him the child he loved. It is safe to play with a soul just so far--sometimes it is safe to play even farther, when one really knows one's strength.... The woman had possibly overestimated her prowess--and yet possibly she had not--it were hard to tell of one who knows the things that we do not--who does not know the things that we do. There was manhood, and honor, and decency in Schuyler yet--a little, of a sort. He struck her in the face--full upon the vivid, crimson lips--and a little of their crimson seemed to leave its lair. It trickled down upon the dead whiteness of her skin.... But she still smiled. Her white arms went forth languorously. Her lithe, slender, beautiful body undulated. Her eyes were on his.... She still smiled.... Again he struck her.... Still she smiled.... Her eyes looked into his. He raised his hand to strike again.... The hand did not fall.... Her eyes were on his; and she still smiled.... She gauged her power well. Perhaps, at times, she flattered it, a little--but never much.... She still smiled.... Perhaps, it was that which she desired. It were hard to tell. For, after all.... [Illustration] CHAPTER THIRTY. AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.