Constance Drew had given Gaston his answer. By the magic of that name she had connected the Past and the Present. The shock was tremendous, but Gaston bore it with only a tightening of the lips to show the agony he was enduring.
Presently an aimless question broke the unendurable stillness of the room.
"Who—is—that, Drew?"
"Ruth Dale—your brother's widow."
"So—he is dead?" At such vital times in life, the mind leaps over chasms of events, and takes much for granted.
"Yes; he died a year ago."
"How long—have you known, Drew—about him and me?"
"Only a few nights ago. He was my friend for a comparatively few years—but he was—a dear friend!" Drew spoke as if defence were necessary.
"I wonder—how much you do know, Drew?" Gaston's face quivered. He began to understand Joyce's soul-struggle.
"Everything, Dale," the name clung uncertainly upon the speaker's lips; "everything—vital. Philip confessed—the week before he died."