“It was signed,” she said, “it was signed—” She paused and turned half way, not lifting the downcast lashes; her hand, laid upon the arm of the bench, was shaking; she put it behind her. Then her eyes were lifted a little, and, though they did not meet his, he saw them, and a strange, frightened glory leaped in his heart. Her voice fell still lower and two heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. “It was signed,” she whispered, “it was signed—'H. Fisbee.'”
He began to tremble from head to foot. There was a long silence. She had turned quite away from him. When he spoke, his voice was as low as hers, and he spoke as slowly as she had.
“You mean—then—it was—you?”
“Yes.”
“You!”
“Yes.”
“And you have been here all the time?”
“All—all except the week you were—hurt, and that—that one evening.”
The bright veil which wrapped them was drawn away, and they stood in the silent, gathering dusk.
He tried to loosen his neck-band; it seemed to be choking him. “I—I can't—I don't comprehend it. I am trying to realize what it——”