Hayden stood with his mouth partly open; almost a grotesque picture of terror he looked in that dim light. Then he spoke, in an odd strained tone, more to himself than to any one else.
"I thought you were dead," he said. "I told myself you'd never come back. Over and over—in the night—I told myself that. But all the time—I knew—I knew you'd come."
A cry—a woman's cry—sounded from just outside the door of number seven. Into the room came Myra Thornhill; quickly she crossed and took Kendrick's hands in hers.
"David," she sobbed. "Oh, David—is it a dream—a wonderful dream?"
Kendrick looked into her eyes, sheepishly at first, then gladly as he saw what was in them. For the light there, under the tears, was such as no man could mistake. Magee saw it. Hayden saw it too, and his voice was even more lifeless when he spoke.
"Forgive me, David," he said. "I didn't mean—"
And then, as he saw that Kendrick did not listen, he turned and walked quietly into the bedroom of number seven, taking no notice of Cargan and Bland, who, with the other winter guests of Baldpate, now crowded the doorway leading to the hall. Hayden closed the bedroom door. Mr. Magee and the others stood silent, wondering. Their answer came quickly—the sharp cry of a revolver behind that closed door.
It was Mr. Magee who went into the bedroom. The moonlight streamed in through the low windows, and fell brightly on the bed. Across this Hayden lay. Mr. Magee made sure. It was not a pleasant thing to make sure of. Then he took the revolver from the hand that still clasped it, covered the quiet figure on the bed, and stepped back into the outer room.
"He—he has killed himself," he said in a low voice, closing the bedroom door behind him.
There was a moment's frightened hush; then the voice of Kendrick rang out: