"I thought we had talked all that out long ago," I answered, a little wearily. "You would have been very foolish if you had acted differently. I don't see how else you could have acted."
"Oh, I don't know," she said. "We were always brought up very particular—especially about telling the truth."
"Well, you haven't said anything that wasn't the truth," I reminded her.
"Oh, I don't know. I haven't said what I ought to say," she declared. "It seems all right when you are with me, and talk about it," she continued slowly, raising her eyes to mine. "It's when I don't see you for weeks and weeks that it seems to get on my mind, and I get afraid. I don't understand it, I don't understand it even now."
"Don't understand what?" I repeated.
She looked around. Her air of troubled mystery was only half assumed.
"How that man died!" she whispered.
"I can assure you that I did not kill him, if that is what you mean," I told her coolly. "The matter is over and done with. I think that you are very foolish to give it another thought."
She shuddered.
"Men can forget those things easier," she said. "Perhaps he had a wife and children. Perhaps they are wondering all this time what has become of him."