“They went to Lord Flanborough’s,” she repeated nodding her head. “I know that. I sent them there.” The tension was dreadful, no man spoke, then suddenly Gregori swung round on the girl and his face was the face of a devil. “You!” he grated and leaped at her throat. In that one moment all the scattered atoms of race, of pride, of kinship united in the distorted brain of Colonel Westhanger. His lean arms shot out and Gregori fell headlong to the floor. “Back, you dog!” roared the old man. It was the last word he uttered. There was a stinging report from the floor and Colonel Westhanger fell limply across the table with a bullet through his heart. The girl who was half fainting with terror shrank back against the wall as Gregori rose, his still smoking pistol in his hand. “You are a prophet,” he said harshly; “you said you would die with Michael Pretherston and by God! you spoke the truth. Put them together,” he said, “I want to think things out.” CHAPTER XIX. MICHAEL DEVELOPED A FONDNESS FOR THE CRIMINAL CLASSES The girl rose up from the chair where she had been sitting and crossed to where Michael lay on the floor where they had thrown him. He looked up and smiled. “Why, Kate,” he said faintly, “always… meeting… you.” She sat down at his side and lifting his head laid it upon her lap. “That’s nice,” he murmured. “Why is it nice?” she asked curiously, “because I make a softer pillow than the stone?” “That and something more,” he answered. “What more?” she insisted. “Oh--because it is you, I suppose,” he said vaguely. Her lips twitched in amusement. “But it would be just the same if it were any other person,” she said, “wouldn’t it, Mike?” He looked up at her. “Put your hand on my forehead,” he said. “Like this?” She laid her soft palm against his throbbing head. “What does that do?” she asked after a long interval of silence. “It just makes my head better--don’t ask a lot of questions.” Her fingers stole down his face and she gently pinched his nose. “Oh, Kate,” he murmured sleepily, “I was just going to sleep.” “Then don’t,” she said, “what is the use of dozing--you’ll be dead soon and so will I.” She said this very calmly, in the same matter-of-fact tone in which she might have announced that there would be a roast chicken for dinner. “I hope they kill you first,” she said thoughtfully. “You’re a bloodthirsty little beggar,” said Michael indignantly; “why do you wish that?” She shrugged her shoulders and went on pressing back the hair from his forehead, never taking her eyes from his face. “I don’t know,” she said at last, “only I want to make sure that you’re gone and nobody else can have you--and then I shan’t care.” He did not move; for a second she saw his eyelids quiver, but he lay still staring past her to the dingy roof of the engine house. “Say that again,” he whispered. “Say what again? That I want you to be killed first?” she asked innocently. “Mike,” she said suddenly, “who was the girl?”