I said I'd be _justified_. Are _you_, in dashing like a shot into my
life and then leaving me without a word to explain it? I've played host
to you gladly, though you've torn my nerves to pieces. Remember how you
came here!"

"Yes! Yes!" ejaculated the boy bitterly. "I'm an intruder! I forced
myself on you and I know it! God knows I know it!"

"I didn't mean it unkindly. I tell you, I want you to _stay_! I want you
to, no matter what you are or what you've done. You've admitted that
you've done something--something terrific--"

"And I have!" cried the boy, his eyes lighting wildly. "At last, at
last! I've done it, I've _done_ it!"

"And in spite of it, I want you to stay! Whatever it is, I want to
protect you from the consequences of it!"

"Look to yourself!" cried the boy. "You'll curse me yet for coming here!
Let me go, and protect _yourself_!"

"I am no longer considering myself, I've done that too much in my life,
and to-night I'm reckless. No matter _what_ the crime you've done--"

"Crime?" His visitor flashed wondering eyes upon him. "You fool! You
fool!" Again, the exclamation was like an echo of himself, but Mr.
Montagu had no time to entertain the thought, for the boy was stammering
out his astonishment in hysterical syllables. "I--a criminal!
_I_--I--Oh, I might have _known_ it would seem that way to you! But
_I_--"

Again under the penetrating gaze his host felt himself morbidly guilty,
but there was a thrill of gladness in his heart that now welcomed the
grim alternative of the boy's simple madness.

"Stay with me!" he cried. "Sleep here, and rest, and then--"

"Let me go to Maurice's!" cried the boy desperately. "You'll regret it
if you don't! Oh, for the pity of God, for pity of _yourself_, let me
leave you while I still _offer_ to leave you!"

Mr. Montagu backed himself against the door.

"Why do you want to go there?" he demanded. "What is it you want to look
at the women in Maurice's for?"

The boy hung fire under the determined voice.

"The--the women who go to Maurice's are--are--of a--certain _kind_,
aren't they?"

"Some of them--most of them," said Mr. Montagu. "If you've never been
there, why do you want so to go? They're not unusual; simply--painted
women."

"Painted?" repeated the boy in astonishment. He turned to the portrait.
"_That's_ a painted woman, too. Aren't they _alive_ at Maurice's?"

In his marvel at the enormous innocence of it, Mr. Montagu wondered, for
the firs