He fumbled in a pocket and
drew out a key.
"I promised, when he died, that I would go in and take a last look for
him," he said. "He loved this place. Do you want to go with me?"
She drew a deep breath. "Yes."
The key opened the door that entered on the veranda. As it swung back,
grating on its rusty hinges, they found themselves facing the chill of
a cold and lifeless air. Keith stepped inside. A glance told him that
nothing was changed--everything was there in that room with the big
fireplace, even as he had left it the night he set out to force justice
from Judge Kirkstone. One thing startled him. On the dust-covered table
was a bowl and a spoon. He remembered vividly how he had eaten his
supper that night of bread and milk. It was the littleness of the
thing, the simplicity of it, that shocked him. The bowl and spoon were
still there after four years. He did not reflect that they were as
imperishable as all the other things about; the miracle was that they
were there on the table, as though he had used them only yesterday. The
most trivial things in the room struck him deepest, and he found
himself fighting hard, for a moment, to keep his nerve.
"He told me about the bowl and the spoon, John Keith did," he said,
nodding toward them.
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