"Was!" she echoed in startled comprehension. "Was!—did you say was?"
"You mean that—?" she said the three words very slowly and stopped, unable to go on.
"You mean—that—he—?" With a strong effort she added the one word, then gave up the effort to shape the question. Her hand closed convulsively.
Benton slowly nodded his head. The girl leaned forward toward him. Her lips parted, her eyes widened.
The next instant they were misty with tears. Not hypocritical tears for an unloved husband, but sincere tears for a generous friend.
"Delgado escaped," he explained simply. "Karyl was captured." Again he spoke in few words. It seemed that he could not manage long sentences. "Then he tried to escape," he added.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, and leaned forward, speaking rapidly in a half-whisper that sometimes broke.
"Oh, it's not fair! It's not fair! I want to think only how splendid he was—how unselfish—how brave! I want to think of him always as he deserves, lovingly, fondly—and I've got to remember forever how little I could give him in return!"
"Yes, I guess he was the whitest man—" Benton stopped, then blurted out like a boy. "Oh, what's the use of my sitting here eulogizing him. I guess he doesn't need my praises. I guess he can stand on his own record."