"One person at least," he answered significantly.
She caught her breath, and the hand that passed hastily across her forehead trembled.
"Even if it were true what you say," she said, half inaudibly, "it does not alter the fact that we must atone for what has been done."
"It is the justice of the world," he assented. "We must make good the harm we do and the harm that has been done us." He threw back his shoulders with a movement of energetic protest. "Do not let us waste time talking. We can not help each other. All I ask is—do not forget my message."
She looked at him, strangely moved.
"You talk as though you were going to die to-night," she said.
"I talk as a man does whom death has already tapped on the shoulder more than once of late," he answered, with grim humor. "Good-by, Beatrice."
"Good-by."
He pushed his writing-table to one side so that she could pass out on to the verandah.
"Do not come with me farther," she said. "The carriage is waiting outside. I would rather go alone."