“So your sister, a young, unprotected girl, at your urgent solicitation, went alone to this man at that hour of the night, at the risk of--a good many things; and, in order to save you from the well-merited consequences of your being a cowardly rascal, offered to hand over to him her hard-won savings, and, in all probability, to pledge to the fullest extent her future earnings. And when, in the morning, he is found to have been murdered, you immediately jump to the conclusion that she killed him. With you, Mr. Moore, the sense of gratitude takes a peculiar form. In a state of civilisation in which logic prevailed, the breath would be crushed out of your body; sharing the fate of other vermin, you would not be allowed to exist. Unfortunately for you, this is not a moment in the world’s history in which logic does prevail.” So I shook him--gently. I did not treat him to a thousandth part of his deserts, for his sister’s sake. Yet, when I dropped him back on to the floor, to judge from his looks and his behaviour, he might have been used with considerable severity. He seemed to be under the impression that I had murdered him. “That was good!” said Miss Adair. “I feel better.” I don’t know what prompted her to make such a remark, but I felt better too. CHAPTER X. WHERE MISS MOORE WAS GOING It was a relief to cease breathing the atmosphere of an apartment which was contaminated by the presence of Mr. Tom Moore. At least, that was what I felt when I was being driven with Miss Adair towards Imperial Mansions. Apparently that was her own feeling. “Nice sort of brother that. He’s a man.” “But what a sister! She’s a woman.” She seemed to suspect me of a satirical intention. “I don’t fancy, Mr. Ferguson, that all women are built exactly on Bessie’s lines.” “Would that they were. Miss Moore is of the stuff of which our mothers should be made.” She looked at me a little sideways; I was conscious of it, though I myself looked straight ahead. “Are you married, Mr. Ferguson?” I do not know why she should have asked me such a question at that particular moment, nor why the blood heated my cheeks. I answered shortly: “No. I am not so fortunate.” “Ah! I shouldn’t be surprised if you were so fortunate, a little later on.” Her tone conveyed a world of meaning; though what was its signification I could not tell. I suspected her of hinting at something which I should resent; but how to set about the discovery of what she meant I did not know. She continued: “Suppose--I say suppose, just for the sake of argument--suppose it turns out that Bessie has killed this--man, I wonder what would happen.” “I decline to suppose the impossible.” “But how can you say that it’s impossible? You’re not in a position to judge; you know nothing of her character, her disposition. She’s a stranger--to you.” “I know enough of her to be sure that she is incapable of anything unworthy.”