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Liane
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he thought, as he laid her on the bank. It was he who had lifted her out. Charbonnel had been just a step behind; but Tony drew back as the other fell down by her. It seemed as if Charbonnel’s strength had quite given way; he did not speak or move.

Tony felt numbed. He stood watching Liane’s face; it was very peaceful, but terribly remote. Presently he was aware that Charbonnel had half raised himself, and was looking at him with burnt-out eyes full of hate; if any look could ever kill, Tony would have died then.

“You killed my daughter.”

“What does it matter which of us killed her?” he said wearily. “It needed two.”

A flash passed over Charbonnel’s face, and left it greyer than before. “Go away, then,” he said, in quite a quiet voice. “I shall carry her home.”

Tony looked once at Liane, lying patient on the soaked grass. She did not ask him to stay. He turned blindly into the scrub, and there was a pain in his throat that stopped him from thinking at all.

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