Page:The Mystery of Central Park.djvu/70

64

Richard Treadwell sat moodily on a bench, half supporting the limp form of the girl he had just saved from death.

He had caught her just as she threw up her hands with a pitiful, weak cry, ready to spring into the reservoir.

"My dear young woman, don't take on so," he said, vexedly, as the girl leaned against his shoulder, and sobbed in a heart-broken, distracted manner. "You are safe now."

As if that could be consolation to a woman who was seeking death which sought her not.

"Really, I am sorry, you know, but there's