“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear.
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