We stopped at New London, and went on again. Having eaten three or four sandwiches, I declined any more, folding the remainder in the napkin and stowing them away. The simple meal we had shared together restored something of our old-time confidence.
"I'm going to do it," she sighed, as I put the bag back in its place. "He's—he's somewhere on the train—in the smoking-car, I suppose. He's—he's not to come for me till—till we're getting near the Back Bay Station in Boston."
I brought out my question simply, though I had been pondering it for some time. "Who'll tell Mr. Brokenshire?"
She moved uncomfortably.
"I don't know. I haven't made any arrangements. He's in Newport for one or two nights, seeing to some small changes in the house. I—I had to take the opportunity while he was away." As if with a sudden inspiration she glanced round from staring out into the dark. "Would you do it?"
I shook my head.
"I couldn't. I've never seen a man struck dead, and—"
She swung her chair so as to face me more directly.
"Why," she asked, trembling—"why do you say that?"
"Because, if I told him, it's what I should have to look on at."