But his gaze met hers unflinchingly. "Claire is dead," he whispered. The words issued from pale lips almost inaudibly. Hands pressed against the arms of her chair, Anne started up. Her rising scream was subdued to a whisper. "Claire dead!" He nodded dumbly. Throwing himself into a chair, he cupped his face in trembling fingers. "Yes, Anne, Claire is dead. And I have killed her as surely as if I'd stuck a knife into her, or put poison into her food." Anne's hands flew instinctly to her mouth to check a cry. "What do you mean?" Was it possible that----? His misery-laden eyes encountered the question in hers without comprehending its horrible significance. "The child. My child," he replied with tragic simplicity. "Ah!" Anne leaned her head against the chair-back. She closed her eyes while a species of lucid swoon swept over her. So Claire was dead. They had killed her between them. She and Alexis had killed a woman. For if Alexis was guilty, so was she. Was she not the indirect cause of the girl's misery? Might not Alexis have gone back to Claire if it had not been for herself? That was problematical and open to doubt, so her uncanny lucidity informed her. But the fact remained they had killed her between them. And yet the very first time that Anne had seen Claire she already bore within herself the seeds of death. Tragic germ of life, that contains death! Poor, poor Claire! "Poor Claire," she moaned beneath her breath almost unconsciously. "And--the child?" she faltered, sturdily defiant of her fear. "Lives." "Thank God." Anne's face was suddenly wet with tears. "Tell me about it." From a gulf of despair, Anne's voice smote upon his misery. "It was horrible. Her face, her poor little dead face! I cannot sleep at night for seeing it." He wrung tortured hands. Anne shuddered. "Tell me about it," she whispered relentlessly. He fixed his eyes upon her petrified face with a groan. "Oh, Anne, must I tell you everything? Can't I spare you anything at all?" "Tell me everything. I can bear it if you can." Her pupils narrowed in an agony of pity, as they fell upon his white face. He continued in a monotonous voice that muffled his suffering as a heavy mist conceals the lip of a chasm. "I was in Chicago when I received the telegram. I cancelled my engagements and rushed back to New York on the next train. But it was too late--Claire was dead." Head heavy on his chest, his lids drooped leadenly over a waxy face. "Go on." Anne's voice was thick with tears. "I went to the apartment. Dr. Elliott met me at the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves." His voice choked and he was silent for a moment. "You don't know Dr. Elliott, but he was Claire's friend as well as her doctor. He--he loved Claire." Anne showed her astonishment. Was it possible that between them they had driven the child to such cheap consolation? He sensed her terror.