"When did you meet Miss Lawrence?" I asked.
"Last December—the tenth, to be quite accurate—just six months ago to-day——"
Again his voice trailed away into a sort of hoarse whisper, though he tried desperately to control it.
"Won't you tell me about it?"
"Is it necessary?" he questioned miserably. "I—I don't want to talk."
"I know you don't, and I don't want to make you. But if I'm to help, I must know the whole story."
"Pardon me, Mr. Lester," he said, pulling himself together by a mighty effort. "Of course you must. Only give me time. I'm—I'm——"
"All the time in the world," I assured him, and settled back in my chair to listen.
"We had a bad grade-crossing just east of Elizabeth," he began, after a moment, in a steadier tone. "It was an ugly place, with the driveway coming down a stiff hill and meeting our tracks at an angle which prevented a clear view of them. We kept a flagman there, of course, but nevertheless accidents happened right along. A skittish horse, once started down the hill and frightened perhaps by the whistle and rumble of the approaching train, would be pretty hard to stop."
I nodded. I had seen just such murderous crossings.