Irene went on to speak of Minna; of the girl’s friendless isolation; of the help that she herself might have offered, had Minna not so resolutely repelled her advances. She would be even willing now to risk a breach of good taste if she could befriend her. She asked his advice. Her great-heartedness drew him very near to her--so near that it required a moment’s struggle to stifle the craving to tell her all the miserable history of his marriage, and his own connection with the night’s tragedy. How could he advise her in the matter, knowing, as he did, Minna’s inveterate jealousy and dislike? “I think she will have some of her own people with her,” he remarked, mendaciously. “She said something about it this morning.” He rose to bid her good-bye. As she took his hand she scanned his face earnestly. “You are looking so ill and worn,” she said, affectionately. “Much more so than when you came in. It has been all this discussion.” “I’m afraid it is the want of my breakfast,” he said, forcing a laugh. All Irene’s protective instincts were aroused. “No breakfast--and you were going away without asking for anything to eat! Sit down at once and let me get something for you.” She ran out of the room in her impulsive way, leaving him standing on the hearth-rug. “Good God,” he said, throwing his hat and gloves onto the chair, “I never thought of it.” And he remained staring blankly at a picture in front of him until Irene returned. CHAPTER X From that moment Hugh walked on the edge of a volcano. To keep his thoughts from dizzy hoverings over the abyss, he chained them down, with desperate will, to the work he had on hand. In a week’s time would begin the February sittings of the Central Criminal Court. Good fortune had given him more than his usual share of briefs. One, a blackmailing case, made intricate by medical complications. His client, the defendant, a man in good position. “If you can pull it off, Colman,” said old Harroway, the solicitor, who had known Hugh from boyhood, “you’ll go up like a released balloon.” He toiled at it night and day and held aloof from his kind. The publicity of his connection with the murder sickened him. He took cabs to and from his chambers lest his ears should be irritated by railway-carriage discussions. Minna he saw once, at the inquest, dressed in black, closely veiled, attended by the old Syrian woman. For appearance sake he had conducted her to her brougham. Had asked her one question on the way thither: Was she staying at The Lindens? She replied in the affirmative. She had hitherto refused offers of friendly asylums. Anna’s sympathy and protection sufficed her. What might happen later she did not know. Perhaps she would accompany Anna to Smyrna. The inquest resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown. The next day he attended the funeral, walked, a haughty and tortured Gentile, amid a host of serene and money-lending Jews. The papers naturally reported the fact.