“And there,” said I, “you are wrong and selfish. You have Ruth to live for. Besides, if you are given the chance, you commit suicide if you do not take it.”
There was a long pause, and then he said: “You are right; I will live if I can, Marmion.”
“And now YOU are right.” I nodded soothingly to him, and then asked him to talk no more; for I knew that fever would soon come on.
He lay for a moment silent, but at length whispered: “Did you know it was not a fall I had?” He raised his chin and stretched his throat slightly, with a kind of trembling.
“I thought it was not a fall,” I replied.
“It was Phil’s pal—Kilby.”
“I thought that.”
“How could you—think it? Did—others—think so?” he asked anxiously.
“No, not others; I alone. They thought it accident; they could have no ground for suspicion. But I had; and, besides, there were marks on your throat.”
“Nothing must happen to him, you understand. He had been drinking, and—and he was justified. I wronged him in Samoa, him and Mrs. Falchion.”