He had struck the right note. She pulled herself from him with natural recoil. "Yes, yes; and that is clear from Hermie's action, too. But you don't know what happened. There must be some excuse."
"You know, Miss Bertha, you have thought very foolish things before; you may not be right now."
She sat down on the edge of the verandah, and began to weep heartily and quietly. He was relieved: tears proved her well-being.
They had come, walking together, to that end of the house where, on the second day of their acquaintance, he had found her at dawn watching over his safety. He looked about now, and longed for the dawn, but there was nothing but glimmering darkness and the sweet smell of the gathering rain.
When Bertha had cried for a while she went in to her sister. In a minute she came tip-toeing back to Durgan.
"Hermie is sleeping quite restfully," she said. "How much softer the air feels; I think the change has done her good."
As he turned away Durgan's heart sank. The belief that Claxton was the murderer, not the murdered, and had been sheltered all these years by his own wife, forced itself upon Durgan. These innocent women might find rest in the softened air; but what rest could that woman who bore his name ever find, whose cruelty and selfishness must, in consequence of the exposure now imminent, bear the light of public shame?