They were his last words. He pressed Jack's hand faintly. Then his grasp relaxed, and he fell back a corpse.
It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and Mrs. Decker reclined languidly upon the sofa with a novel in her hand, while her husband discussed the politics of the country in the bar-room of the hotel. It was a warm night; and the French window looking out upon a little balcony was partly open. Suddenly she heard a foot upon the balcony, and she raised her eyes from the book with a slight start. The next moment the window was hurriedly thrust wide, and a man entered.
Mrs. Decker rose to her feet with a little cry of alarm.
“For Heaven's sake, Jack, are you mad? He has only gone for a little while—he may return at any moment. Come an hour later, to-morrow, any time when I can get rid of him—but go, now, dear, at once.”
Mr. Oakhurst walked toward the door, bolted it, and then faced her without a word. His face was haggard; his coat-sleeve hung loosely over an arm that was bandaged and bloody.
Nevertheless her voice did not falter as she turned again toward him. “What has happened, Jack. Why are you here?”
He opened his coat, and threw two letters in her lap.
“To return your lover's letters; to kill you—and then myself,” he said in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.
Among the many virtues of this admirable woman was invincible courage. She did not faint; she did not cry out; she sat quietly down again, folded her hands in her lap, and said calmly,—
“And why should you not?”