“Why not now?” he cried; “why not now? I trust you! I trust you! Let me unburden my soul. I will try.”
It was Baird’s involuntary habit to sink into easy attitudes; the long, supple form of his limbs and body lent themselves to grace and ease. But he sat upright also, his hands unconsciously taking hold upon the arms of his chair as his companion did.
For a moment the two gazed into each other’s eyes, and the contrast between their types was a strange one—the one man’s face dark, sallow, harsh, the other fine, sensitive, and suddenly awake with emotion.
“I trust you,” said Latimer again. “I would not have confessed the truth to any other living creature—upon the rack.”
His forehead looked damp under his black locks.
“You would not have confessed the truth,” Baird asked, in a hushed voice, “about what?”
“Margery,” answered Latimer. “Margery.”
He saw Baird make a slight forward movement, and he went on monotonously.
“She did not die in Italy,” he said. “She did not die lying smiling in the evening sun.”
“She—did not?” Baird’s low cry was a thing of horror.