“She must have starved to death here,” said Mordaunt, gazing at the corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him.
“Poor creature!” he said; “this crust was probably all that remained to her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her buried!”
As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor.
“There is Achmed’s blood,” he said, pointing to a stain on the plank; “and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his victim.”
“I remember,” I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so vividly.
“There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing, Mordaunt!”
“You mean—”
“Violet Grafton.”
Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene sweetness.
“She is my wife,” he said; “the joy and sunlight of my life! I no longer read Les Misérables, and sneer at my species—I no longer scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear Achmed!”