There stood Paul Dabney, fully dressed, his face pale and grim.
“Come out,” he said. “Come with me and see what has been done.” I noticed that he kept one hand in his pocket, and that the pocket bulged.
I got up, still in my wrapper, my hair hanging in two long, dishevelled braids, and came, in a dazed way, towards him. He took me by the wrist, using his left hand, the other still in his pocket. His fingers were as cold and hard as steel. I shrunk a little from them, and he gave my wrist a queer, cruel little shake.
“What does it feel like, eh?” he snarled.
I merely looked at him. His unexpected appearance, his terrible manner, the opening of that locked door without the use of any key, above all, a dull sense of some overwhelming tragedy for which I was to be held responsible,—all these things held me dumb and powerless. I let him keep his grasp on my wrist, and I walked beside him along the passage-way as though I were indeed a somnambulist. So we came to the nursery door. Inside, I saw Mary kneeling beside Robbie's little bed, and heard her sobbing as though her heart would break.
“What is it?” I whispered, looking at Paul Dabney and pulling back.
My look must have made some impression on him. A queer sort of gleam of doubt seemed to pass across his face. He drew me towards the cot, keeping his eyes riveted upon me.
There lay the little boy who had never allowed me to come so near to him before, passive and still—a white little face, a body like a broken flower. I saw at once that he was dead.
“Oh, miss,” sobbed Mary, keeping her face hidden, “why didn't you keep to your plan? Oh, God have mercy on us, we have killed the poor soul!”
“Mary,” I whispered, “you locked me in.”