“Yes,” she said unsteadily, “yes, he shot himself.”
Her hand was on the door-knob.
“Are you going in to tell her now, Frieda?”
“I must have a little time,—just a little, dear. I am more shaken than you think. I must have time to collect myself. It will be very difficult, Davenport. Stay here. Do not come unless I call to you.”
“I leave it all to you, Frieda,—God bless you and God give you strength.”
The door closed behind her. He sat motionless for a long time, wondering whether he could hear her call to him with that door and doubtless another intervening. Strange that she should have closed it. He would wait a little while,—a few minutes only,—and then he would open it and—listen.
She went straight to her own room.... Presently she lifted the telephone receiver from the hook. The next moment she replaced it, but did not release it from her tense fingers.
She sat rigid, staring at the instrument, resolve and indecision struggling for mastery. At last she pushed the instrument away and sank back in the chair as if exhausted.