"Then explain to me," she cried out, and I saw that tears brimmed in her eyes, "why did he die when I came?"
"It was a coincidence," I said lamely.
Seizing my hands, she actually fell on her knees before me, flashing into my eyes all the loveliness of her pallid, upturned face.
"It was not a coincidence!" she passionately sobbed. "Why can't you be frank with me, and tell me how it is that I have killed him? He said long ago—do you not remember?—that I was fatal to him. He was getting better—you yourself said so—till I came, and then he died."
What could I reply? The girl was uttering the thoughts which had haunted me for days.
I tried to smile a reassurance, and raising her as gently as I could, I led her back to her chair. It was on my part a feeble performance.
"You are suffering from a nervous crisis," I said, "and I must prescribe for you. My first prescription is that we do not talk about Alresca's death."
I endeavored to be perfectly matter-of-fact in tone, and gradually she grew calmer.
"I have not slept since that night," she murmured wearily. "Then you will not tell me?"