"Did it ever strike you," he went on, "that this man—Leicester, I think you call him—did not commit suicide?"
"But he did!"
"How do you know?"
"The papers, the coroner's inquest, the—that is, there could be no doubt. Letters addressed to him were found on his dead body."
"I was only considering it from the standpoint of one who is terribly interested in all this, more interested than even you can think. For your story has a vital meaning to me, signorina; you can imagine that. How can it be otherwise, when your answer to my plea means so much? For let me tell you this, although your refusal would mean more to me than anything you can dream of, I would not marry a woman half of whose heart was buried in the grave of another man. May I ask you another question, signorina?"
She nodded her head, wondering and fearing, she knew not why, what it would be.
"Suppose this man were not dead, supposing he is still alive, and were to come back, repentant perhaps, and reformed—would you marry him now?"
"No, no, never." She uttered the words eagerly.
"He is nothing to you now?"
"His memory is a black shadow on my life."