"Do you believe me?" she added, after a long pause.
Brigit, who stood by the window, nodded without turning.
"Oh, yes, I believe you," she said indifferently.
Then, before her mother could again speak, the girl left the room.
On her own table she found another letter, and to her surprise recognised Carron's writing in the address. With a sudden foreboding of evil, she sat down and opened the letter.
It was very long, written in pencil, and began:
"Before God, I swear you wronged your mother in thinking she believed what I said about you that day in Pont Street. Before God, I give you my word. Brigit, I am going to die; I cannot live. I don't like to live. The world is abominable. I hate everybody. I hate you. I hate God. The only way I can forget is to take morphine, and it is beginning to go back on me. Sometimes I don't feel it at all. And it is only the last of many friends to desert me——"
There were four pages of this, growing more and more incoherent, and then at the last, the writer went on, his writing suddenly larger and more distinct, as if he had taken pains to render it legible:
"I am going to die, Brigit, so good-bye. If you would have married me I should not have done this. It is all your fault. Gerald Carron."
For an instant her indignation at the incredible cowardice of the man crushed every other feeling. Then a thrill of horror came over her. Looking again at the last page she saw below the signature: