Chapter Twenty Eight.
“Dead Separate Souls...”
She turned as he overtook her. For a moment they thus stood face to face. Then he spoke.
“I have come to say good-bye.”
“To say—good-bye?” echoed Mona, dully, staring at him as though she were walking in her sleep.
“Yes. There is a gulf between us now such as can never be bridged, never. It is not good that you should even so much as speak with a murderer. A murderer, I repeat.”
The faces of both were white as death. The frames of both were rigid and motionless, as they stood confronting each other beneath the willows—there, where they had first met, there, where those passionate words of undying love had been interchanged, there, where those long, long kisses had stamped their seal upon that love. And here they had met again—to part.
“Roden, say it was not true!” she gasped at last. “You were acquitted at the trial. It is not true; it cannot be true! Say it is not; say it is not!”
“But, what if it is?”