VIII
"Rawn," said Halsey directly, abandoning even any pretense at courtesy; "the end of the world has come for you, for us all. My wife is dead—she's lucky! My child is dead, too, and that's lucky. It had no life to live, crippled as it was. She killed herself and the baby. I don't seem to care as I ought to care. And now your wife has told me that she loves me. It's true! She doesn't love you; she never has. She has not taken me a prisoner any more than I have her. We're both in this to-night. We're both to blame. But, at the bottom, you are to blame—for all of this."
"Of course! Of course!" smiled John Rawn sardonically. "What would you expect? I am sorry. But I'll never tell any one about it, you can depend on that!"
"You'll never tell!" went on Charles Halsey slowly. "You'll never need to tell. But here's what I want to tell you, once more. Whatever this is—and it's about bad enough—it's come because of you. You—you were the cause of this!"
"You blame me—why, what do you mean!" burst out John Rawn. "Where have I been to blame, I'd like to know! What do you mean, young man?"
"Every word I have told you, and more than I can tell you. You'll not think—you don't dare to face the truth; but there's the real truth. If you can't understand that, take what you can understand. Your wife isn't to blame—I'm to blame. Love is to blame. I love her. I've done this."
"You have done—what?"
"I've taken your wife away from you, can't you understand, you fool? She's going to marry me as soon—"
"Jennie!—what's this fellow talking about?" The veins on John Rawn's forehead stood high and full.
IX