the people who do the things that are
done in there--"

Carrie interrupted him, breaking in upon him abruptly:

"What things?"

"Murders, and--"

"The murder was done by your friend, not by us."

"'Us?' Surely you don't identify yourself with these people?"

"I do. They are my friends--the only friends I have."

"But they are thieves, blackmailers!" said Max, saying not what he knew
but what he guessed.

"What have they stolen from you? What harm have they done to you or
anybody that you know of? All this is because my Granny didn't approve
of my having a stranger in, and had you shut into a dark room to give
you a fright."

"But you forget you said just now you had got me out of a nice mess."

"I--I meant that you were frightened."

"And with good reason. After what I saw and heard in that room, I should
be worse than a criminal myself if I didn't inform the police about the
existence of the place. I believe it's one of the vilest dens in
London."

Carrie was silent. She did not attempt to ask him what it was that he
had heard and seen while in that room. And Max felt his heart sink
within him. He would have had her question, protest, deny. And instead
she seemed tacitly to take the truth of all his accusations for granted.

"Don't you see," he presently went on, almost in a coaxing tone, "that
it's for your own good that you should have to go away? I won't
believe--I can't--that you like this underground, hole-and-corner
existence, this life that is dishonest all through. Come, now, confess
that you don't like it--that you only live like this because you can't
help it, or because you think you can't help it--and I'll forgive you."

There was a long pause. Then he heard a little, hard, cynical laugh. He
tried hard to see her face; but although he caught now and then a gleam
of the great eyes, the wonderful eyes that had fascinated him, he could
not distinguish the expression, hardly even the outline of her features.

When she at last spoke, it was in a reckless, willful tone.

"Forgive me! What have you to forgive, except that I was fool enough to
ask you into the house? And if you've suffered for that, it seems I
shall have to, too, in the long run; and I'm not going to say I don't
like the life, for I like it better than any I've lived before."

"What!"

"Yes, yes, I tell you. I'm not a heroine, ready to drudge away my life
in any round of dull work that'll keep body and soul together. I'd
rat