"I waited for news—it was long in coming. At last it arrived on the day my grandson was born. Wyndham had outwitted me. He could not bear the load of a living death. Shame on him. He could take his bliss, but not his punishment. He leaped overboard the Esperance—he committed suicide."
"What? No, never. Don't dare to say such words."
"I must say them, although they are cruel. He committed suicide, and then he came to haunt me; he knew that his blood would rest on my soul; he knew how best to torture me for what I had done to him."
"One question. Was the insurance money paid?"
"Was it? Yes. I believe so. That part seemed all of minor importance afterwards. But I believe it was paid. I think Helps saw to it."
"You believe that my husband committed suicide, and yet you allowed the insurance offices to pay."
"What of that? No one else knew my thoughts."
"As you say, what of that? Is your story finished?"
"Nearly. I lost your love, and for the last three years I have been haunted by Wyndham. I see his shadow everywhere. Once I met him in the street. A few nights ago he came into the library and confronted me; he spoke to me and tried to touch me; he pretended he was not dead."
"What night was that?"