"She plays well ... in the dark, too."
"She does all things well," said the lover. "You are fond of something, then?"
"Music? Yes. I am fond of many things; but I except human beings. You are trying to solve the riddle? Don't waste your time. I'm a riddle to myself. But for Hilda I should have beaten you. Do you know, if Hallowell had been weak I should have gone out to your villa. I wonder what would have happened?"
"He would have been alive this day," answered Mathison, grimly; "for we both of us would have vacated the premises. Typhoon. They named you well. And yet!"
"Ah, and yet?" Berta looked up.
"Why not become a friend instead of an enemy? You say you want peace and quiet after all this stormy life. Why not melt a little? I know my wife. She would take you in her arms with half a chance."
"Thanks. Oh, I am not ironic. I mean it. But it is impossible. I cannot change my nature. There is too much behind me. I chose the road I came by. Regret? Remorse? No. To you I am bad; to myself, I am only free.... Tell her to play that Russian thing again.... No; I must go my chosen way. I am like your parrakeet. Sometimes I can be forced to do things, but always I am untamable. Get me that passport and I will vanish. I have never known what it is to be sorry. The faculty isn't in me. I am an outcast. I prefer it. But I am not a hypocrite. I did not come here to whine; I came to demand. But I'll soften that. Get me out of this country, which I despise, and I'll thank you. I was not implicated in the killing of your friend. Besides, it was war."
Mathison shook his head. A pagan; that was it. He stooped to stir a log and got a glimpse of her eyes. They were dry and hard. A passport, or was she up to some deadly mischief? However quickly he might obtain a passport, he knew it would not arrive until after he himself had put to sea. Berta free and Hilda alone? He leaned against the mantel, wondering what the end would be.
There were French doors on the south side of the living-room. To the north were the original deep-set windows with broad seats and heavy shutters. Mathison locked up only when about to retire for the night. His back was toward the south, so he missed the forewarning of the menace. The brass knob of one of the doors was turning with infinite slowness, a small fraction of an inch at a time. If there was any sound, it was smothered by the magnificent chords of Rachmaninoff's melancholy inspiration.
Suddenly Berta stood up, covered a yawn, and started toward the staircase. She had reached the middle of the room, when a rush of cold air caused Mathison to turn. He saw Lysgaard, his blue eyes burning with madness, his cheeks hollow and white with fury. There followed two shots, but Mathison's was a second too late. Berta's hands flew automatically to her breast; wide-eyed she stared at Lysgaard for a space, then an expression of deep weariness settled upon her face. She swayed, her knees doubled, and she sank in a huddle upon the rug.