“When I was left free I had but one thought,” Baird said, “to return to her—to atone, so far as atonement could be—to pray of her upon my knees. But she was dead—she was dead!”
“Yes, she was dead, and I had no one left to talk to about her. You were my one comfort and support and friend.”
He drew his hand out of his breast. Baird started and then stood quite quiet. The hand held a pistol.
“Are you going to kill me?” he said. “You know I asked you that once before.”
“No,” said Latimer, “I am not going to kill you. I am going to kill the man who loved you, and found you his reason for living. It’s all done with!”
“No! no!” shrieked Baird, and he hurled himself across the table like a madman. “No! You are not! No, Latimer! No! God! No!”
They were struggling together—Baird hung to his arm and tried to drag the pistol from his grasp. But it was no use; Latimer’s long, ill-hung limbs were the stronger. His fixed face did not change, but he wrenched himself free and flung Baird across the room. He set the pistol against his heart and pulled the trigger. He gave something like a leap and fell down.
The door opened for the returning member of the committee and the impatient applause of the audience came through it almost a roar.
Baird was struggling to rise as if his fall had stunned him. Latimer was stretched at full length, quite dead.