“That is interesting,” he commented. “You mean I—ah—put him out of the way?”
She nodded, her lips quivering.
“Of course,” said Selden, “it would be foolish for me to deny that I have a long list of assassinations to my credit. But I do not seem to recall this particular one.”
“I think the date will bring it back to your mind.”
“What was the date?”
Her face was ashen, and her eyes burned into his. Could it be that she was in earnest?
“The sixth of June, 1918,” she said hoarsely.
Selden contracted his brows in an effort to remember where he had been on the sixth of June, 1918. That was two years and a half ago, and so much had happened; the sixth of June—yes, of course—that was a day he would remember all his life. At dawn, he had watched the Marines straighten out their line toward Torcy, and late in the afternoon he had seen them go forward against Belleau Wood and Bouresches. He remembered the thrill with which he had learned of the order for the attack—we were going in at last! And he had hurried out of headquarters and clambered up to a little red-roofed farm-house looking down on Belleau....
But what connection could all this have with the woman beside him?
And then his face stiffened at a sudden recollection.