The old Evered, the normal Evered even now would have shaken his head, bent for his drink from the spring and gone back to his work. But Evered was in want of company this day; and Darrin had a cheerful voice, a comradely eye. Darrin seemed glad to see him. Also the little hollow about the spring had a fascination for Evered. Having come to the spot he was unwilling to leave it, not because he wished to stay, but because he wished to go. He stayed because he dreaded to stay. He took Darrin’s cup and dipped it in the spring and drank; and then at Darrin’s insistence he sat down against the bowlder and whittled a fill for his pipe and set it going.
Darrin during this time had been talking with the nimble wit which was characteristic of the man. He made Evered feel more assured, more comfortable than he had felt for a long time. And while Darrin talked Evered’s slow eyes were moving all about, marking each spot in the tragedy that was forever engraved upon his mind—there had sat his wife, there Semler, yonder stood the bull—terribly vivid, terribly real, so that the sweat burst out upon his forehead again.
Darrin, watching, asked, “What’s wrong? You look troubled.”
And Evered hesitated, then said huskily, “It’s the first time I’ve been here.”
He did not explain; but Darrin understood. “Since your wife was killed?”
“Yes.”
Darrin nodded. “It was here by the spring, wasn’t it?”
Evered answered slowly, “Yes. She was—lying over there when I found her.” He pointed to the spot.
Darrin looked that way; and after a moment, eyes upon the curling smoke of his pipe, he asked casually, “Where was Semler?”
His tone was easy, mildly interested and that was all; nevertheless, his word came to Evered with an abrupt and startling force. Semler? He had told no one save John that Semler was here that day; he knew John would never have told. Ruth knew; but she too was close-mouthed. Fraternity did not know. Yet Darrin knew.