"What?" she asked, almost in a whisper, and he felt her hand's pressure upon his arm again.
He continued, ruminatively, quite as though she had not spoken: "Several things, that make other things clearer to me now—much clearer."
She had never heard him speak like this before. Perhaps it was a matter intimately personal with him, too intimately personal even for her to share his knowledge, his consideration of it. She almost regretted having asked him. Why had she not prattled on about the game, the splendid victory, his own skill? But when next he spoke she understood she had done no wrong.
"I must tell you about those things, Janet; I must tell you now—to-night—I have meant to before."
Her hand upon his arm tightened its grasp.
"John, what is it? What has happened?" Now she made no effort to conceal the fright that sounded in her voice.
He patted her hand, white on his black sleeve, and laughed lightly—forcedly, she thought.
"There, don't be afraid," he said, "I haven't committed any crime."
She laughed then herself, and said, "You did frighten me, though."
They had come to the library. As they passed, the deep throated bell in the tower rang out twice upon the stillness—tang—tung.