I came back abruptly to reality to find a cold wind blowing in through the crack in the window. The doctor and the two policemen between them were lifting Bryce out of the chair he would never more occupy, and I, with my profounder knowledge of death and its consequences, saw just what they were going to do.
"I think I'd better take Miss Drummond outside for the present," I whispered to the sergeant. The man nodded, and, taking Moira by the arm, I led her from the room.
"It would be better if you could go to bed," I suggested.
She shook her head wearily. "I can't, Jim. It's no good trying to persuade me. I just couldn't."
"I think I understand," I said softly.
"I don't feel sorry a bit, Jim. I know it's a strange thing to say, but it's the truth, and there it is. I couldn't summon a tear. But just inside me there's a vacancy, a sense of loss. He's gone out of my life, and I'll never meet anyone who'll quite take his place. I can't put what I mean into so many words, but I think you can understand. You're quick at understanding, Jim. I don't feel sorry a bit, and I don't want to cry, somehow; but I'll miss him dreadfully. I'm hard in some ways, Jim. I must be terribly devoid of affection."
I made no answer to that. My thoughts were on one summer's evening four—or was it five?—years ago, and in the light of what had happened then I could scarcely contradict her now.
"I'm sorry," I said abruptly, "that I had to tell that lie about our being engaged. But I had to be as natural as I could, and the more obvious an explanation I gave the better for us all."
She looked at me for a moment with unutterable things in the depths of her golden-brown eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said slowly, "that you had to tell a lie."