"You haven't seen Evie--oh, yes, you have! She told you I wanted to see you, Mr. Morelle. I do, although I was only joking when I suggested your coming. Are you very fond of Evie?" "Yes, she is a nice child. A little thoughtless and perhaps a little selfish. Young girls are that way, especially if they are pretty. I am fond of young people, all young things have an appeal for me. Kittens, puppies, chicks--I can watch them for hours." This was Ronnie Morelle. She had to tell herself all the time. He was the man whom Ambrose Sault had described as "foul" and Ambrose was so charitable in his judgments; the man who had taken Beryl Merville. "I am glad you spoke of Evie," he went on. "She must not be hurt. At her age men make a profound impression and color the whole of after-life. It is so easy to sour the young. It is hard to improve on the old texts," he smiled. "I wonder why I try. 'As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.' I never think that it is wise to reason with a girl in love--fascinated is a better word. _Aegrescit mendeno_! The disease thrives on remedies. I don't know where I picked up that phrase--it is Latin, isn't it?" He went red again, was painfully embarrassed. She fell back against the wall, white as death. Only by an effort of will did she arrest the scream that arose in her throat. In his distress he was rubbing his chin with his knuckle! "Oh, my God!" cried Christina, wide-eyed. Springing up she took both his hands and looked into his face. "Don't you _know_!" she breathed. A smile dawned slowly in the handsome face of Ronnie Morelle. "I know it is very good to see you, Christina," he said. "Don't you--know? Look at me--Ronnie!" Then as suddenly she released his hands and held on to the table. "Get me some water, please." She watched him as he went unerringly into the scullery. There were two taps, one connected with a rain-water cistern that her father had made; the other was the drinking water. He turned the right tap, found a glass where it was invariably hidden on a shelf behind a cretonne curtain, and brought it back to her. She drank greedily. "Sit down--Ronnie. I want you to tell me something. You went to the execution--I know it hurts you, my dear, but you must tell me. How did he die?" She waited, holding her breath. "It was--terrible," he said in a low voice, "he was so afraid!" "Afraid!" she whispered. "I don't remember much. Every thought seemed to have gone out of my mind. Afterwards I was so numbed--why, I didn't even recognize my own car or know that I had a car." "Did you touch him--look at him, then, did you, Ronnie?" Ronald Morelle answered with a gesture. "Did you--?"