"Yes. He is at the house—dead—Dudgeon—shot him."
"Who was it robbed the bank?"
"Dad and I."
"And Eustace?"
"No. He was innocent."
A shudder of horror passed over him. The woman whom he had loved with such an abandon, this woman whom he held even then in his arms—he shrank away from her, letting her fall against the stone as the grim, sordid horror of the tragedy she was revealing grew plain before him.
"Ah, don't leave me—don't—don't," she moaned. "Let me die in your arms—let me—oh, I love you, love you beyond all else. I will tell you everything—everything—only still hold me."
"How did Eustace die?" His voice rang hard and pitiless.
"Oh! Give me this one last joy on earth. I am not all bad. Don't deny me now. Hold me in your arms, beloved. I had no faith in man or God till I met you, and you were good to me—in the coach—have you forgotten? Don't desert me—now."
Like a jagged claw rending harp-strings the phrases jarred and jangled every chord within his being.