He described the sunless weeks and months of madness until
the girl's eyes seemed to catch fire, and when at last he came to the
little cabin in which Conniston had died, he was again John Keith. He
could not have talked about himself as he did about the Englishman. And
when he came to the point where he buried Conniston under the floor, a
dry, broken sob broke in upon him from across the table. But there were
no tears in the girl's eyes. Tears, perhaps, would have hidden from him
the desolation he saw there. But she did not give in. Her white throat
twitched. She tried to draw her breath steadily. And then she said:
"And that--was John Keith!"
He bowed his head in confirmation of the lie, and, thinking of
Conniston, he said:
"He was the finest gentleman I ever knew. And I am sorry he is dead."
"And I, too, am sorry."
She was reaching a hand across the table to him, slowly, hesitatingly.
He stared at her.
"You mean that?"
"Yes, I am sorry."
He took her hand. For a moment her fingers tightened about his own.
Then they relaxed and drew gently away from him. In that moment he saw
a sudden change come into her face. She was looking beyond him, over
his right shoulder.
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