* * * * *
I looked from these last written words to the photograph. My eyes were blurred, but Tom only leaned back, motionless as before, apathetic as before.
"How long—" I began, tentatively.
"She lived a week after that," Callender replied, in his dry, emotionless voice.
"And the man?"
"He was my brother," replied Callender. "She never saw him again. He married Miss Stockweis about a month after."
I thought of Ralph Callender, cold, correct, slightly bored, as I have always known him, of Miss Stockweis, a dull, purse-proud blonde.
I seized the poor little photograph and raised it reverently to my lips.
"Forgive me, Tom," I said, slightly abashed. (I never could control my impulses.) "The best thing you can do is to thank God for her death. Think of a woman like that—"
"Thank you," said Tom wearily. "Yes, I am glad."