She turned now—turned, looked, and rose to her feet. Her face went white, then flushed red, and then paled again.
“Oh!” she gasped.
Crawford Smith was standing there. His light overcoat—it was not a raincoat—dripped water; so did the hat in his hand. He stood there and looked—and dripped.
“Mary,” he said again.
She caught her breath, almost with a sob.
“You!” she exclaimed. “YOU! Oh, how could you? WHY did you come?”
He took a step toward her. “Because I felt that I must,” he said. “I had to come. I came to see you once more. You must forgive me.”
She did not speak. He continued:
“You must forgive me for coming,” he said again. “There was a question I had to ask and only you could answer it. It isn't the question I asked before, although perhaps that—But first I must tell you: Mary, my father is dead.”
She nodded. She could scarcely trust herself to speak, but she tried.