Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he entered the breach on his friend's behalf.
"Chérie—pardon me—that is not a good wish—not worthy of you. That which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand—not his. Then you would have understood."
"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words scarcely audible, "But—but do you think—he—knew?"
"Le pauvre Cinders?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No, Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble—no, not once. Oh, believe me, petite, it was better to end it so."
"Yes, I know, only—only"—convulsively her hands closed upon his—"Bertie—Bertie—dogs do go to heaven, don't they?"
"I believe it, Christine."
"You do really—not just because I want you to?"
He drew her gently to her feet. "Chérie, I believe it, because I know that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity. Where there is love there is no death. Nothing that loves can die. It is the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench."
He spoke with absolute conviction, almost with exultation; and the words went straight to Chris's heart and stayed there.
"You do comfort me," she said.