“Because I heard what she said to Jim.”
I felt my heart go down, then up, up, beyond anything I had ever experienced in my whole life. The way before me was not closed then. A witness yet remained, though Jim was dead. The boy was oblivious of my emotion; he was staring with great mournfulness at the tent.
“And what was that?” said I.
His attention, which had been wandering, came back, and it was with some surprise he said:
“It was not much. She told him to take the gentleman into the library. But it was the library where men died, and he just went and died there, too, you remember, and Jim said he wasn’t ever going to speak of it, and so I promised not to, neither, but—but—when do you think you will be starting, sir?”
I did not answer him. I was feeling very queer, as men feel, I suppose, who in some crisis or event recognize an unexpected interposition of Providence.
“Are you the boy who ran away from the florist’s in Washington?” I inquired when ready to speak. “The boy who delivered Miss Moore’s bridal bouquet?”
“Yes, sir.”
I let go of his hand and sat down. Surely there was a power greater than chance governing this matter. Through what devious ways and from what unexpected sources had I come upon this knowledge?
“Mrs. Jeffrey, or Miss Moore, as she was then, told Jim to seat the gentleman in the library,” I now said. “Why?”