Her husband looked at her questioningly.
“Conrad’s grave—yes,” she answered quietly. “Randolph, look at the date.”
He did so, and started a little.
“He died at dawn that day, Randolph. You know what was happening then at the other side of the world?”
There was a strange look of awe upon her face as she spoke, which was reflected in his also. She came and stood close beside him.
“Randolph, do you know that he was there—that night?—that he tried to kill you?”
He had taken off his hat as he stood beside the grave, with the instinctive reverence for the dead—even though it be a dead foe—characteristic of a noble mind. Now he passed his hand across his brow and through his thick dark hair.
“I thought that was a delusion of fever—a sort of hideous vision founded on no reality. Monica, was it so?”
“It was.”