E. Nesbit

“ If even you can think of nothing but police, be sure it’s the only thing she’d think of. If you could stay here it would be all right. But you’ve got to drive me to the theatre and bring me back. While we’re away anything might happen.”
“Well?”
“So I’ve decided what to do. I shall take the head to the theatre and dance with it again. That’s the only way of making everything perfectly safe.”
A weaker man would have urged her weakness. This man said:
“You’re strong enough to do it. But why torture yourself? ”

“ There is nothing in the calm night that threatens or pursues; but as he goes, he looks behind him again and again, and he avoids the hedge-rows and their shadows, keeping to frank meadows and open towing-path, where the moonlight is. ”

“ But as he turned towards the door, he saw that the Indian shawl was stirring; an arm came out from it—two arms, stretching sleepily.
Instantly he replaced the head and came to stand by the sofa, saying quietly and strongly: “Don’t be frightened. Everything’s all right.” In moments of stress one is a little apt to repeat oneself.
She sat up, her black hanks of hair slipping loosened to her shoulders, her eyes vacant and wondering. ”

“ Unless,” he added doubtfully, “unless it’s all a hoax.”
“Shall I show you how I did it?” said the chauffeur, coming a step nearer. “I could easily show you. One man’s throat’s very like another’s.”
“Steady on, sir,” said the constable. “I hope I haven’t said anything to annoy you.” He backed, and blew the whistle again with considerable access of fervour.
“Did you ever,” the chauffeur went on conversationally, “take a man’s throat in your hands, and feel the life go slowly out of it, as your fingers went in deeper and deeper. I assure you it’s a sport that’s too much neglected.” ”

“ The chauffeur went down to his motor and waited. The management posted a sentinel in the way by which Sandra would come out of the dressing-room.
To Sandra’s confused brain the fact that the head had passed from her hands meant only danger—vague but terrible danger. And not to her. Only, people might stop her, ask questions, questions that would keep her from the side of the beloved. And now. Instinctively she put on the wig and the clothes of Miss Gertrude Steinhart.
Her dresser was below, drinking in the details of the horror. Sylvia was engaged to be married—and her husband was murdered. ”

“ She found it pleasant to be taken care of. It gave her the sensation of warmth to the heart which you feel when you come in out of the cold and find the fire burning redly and the curtains drawn by someone who has thought your coming long. Besides. . .
“If ever you needed your pluck you need it now,” she told herself, and was wise enough to see that courage is more nourishingly fed on eggs and chocolate than on the empty need of it. But. . . ”

“ They’ll look after her quite kindly. And anyway her dancing career is over.”
“Well, look here,” said Herod: “wait till she comes to, and then send for the police if you must. But do let her get to her dressing-room and get her outdoor things on. You’re not bound to have the poor child carted away dressed up like that.”
“My dear Vandeleur, I can’t do it,” said the haggard management, “not at any price, dear boy. What’s that you say, Somerville? Her chauffeur wants to speak to her. Ah! she’s coming to. Let him come along. That can’t do any harm, can it?” ”

“ Her eyes told the Management that her pale lips spoke the truth—she was ill. And her voice told him that argument or persuasion would be equally useless. Besides, he had learned to recognise that Sylvia, unlike most of the women he had known, always meant exactly what she said—to him. Also he had seen the papers, knew that a headless body with its name conveniently on a card in its pocket had been identified as her husband—and he thought himself lucky that she would dance at all.
“Heartless little beast,” he said. “All women are. ”