"As I bent over him he said, 'She's killed me, Dick.'"
Margaret sank back in her chair. "And it was Rosalie!"
"Yes,—Rosalie. But as he said it you stood above him with a smoking revolver in your hand—a revolver I had seen here, on your table, but a few months before."
She opened a drawer and took it out.
"It has been here ever since. He had a pair of them."
He took the revolver in his hand and looked at it. It was of peculiar workmanship—the counterpart of one now in his own possession—the one he took out every now and then and looked at. He drew a quick sharp breath that was almost a groan,—then laid it down, saying quietly, "I did not know that. It might have changed everything if I had known. You see how strong it made the case against you. And then his saying—"
"Did he say anything else?" she questioned eagerly.
"Yes. He said, 'Don't prosecute. I deserved it.'"
"And it was Rosalie!" she repeated. "It was Rosalie he tried to save. Oh, I am glad he said that—glad! Why didn't you tell her?"
"There will be time for that." He marveled that she could think now of Rosalie. "Do you not see how all this misled me?"