She was sitting motionless now.
Palmer went on in the same harsh, jerky way:
"Now, nobody in the world—not even you—knew me better than Brent did. He knew what to expect—if I caught on to what was doing. And I guess he knew I would be pretty sure to catch on."
"He never said a word to me that you couldn't have heard," said Susan.
"Of course not," retorted Palmer. "That isn't the question. It don't matter whether he wanted you for himself or for his plays. The point is that he took you away from me—he, my friend—and did it by stealth. You can't deny that."
"He offered me a chance for a career—that was all," said she. "He never asked for my love—or showed any interest in it. I gave him that."
He laughed—his old-time, gentle, sweet, wicked laugh. He said:
"Well—it'd have been better for him if you hadn't. All it did for him was to cost him his life."
Up she sprang. "Don't say that!" she cried passionately—so passionately that her whole body shook. "Do you suppose I don't know it? I know that I killed him. But I don't feel that he's dead. If I did, I'd not be able to live. But I can't! I can't! For me he is as much alive as ever."
"Try to think that—if it pleases you," sneered Palmer. "The fact remains that it was you who killed him."