She should have died at Megambo—a martyr.
Suddenly he heard the voice of the tired little woman, “And here is her hand-bag.” She held it out to McTavish, a poor morsel of leather, all hardened and discolored by the rain. “That’s how we found her address. It was written on a card.”
McTavish opened it mechanically, and turned it upside-down. A few coins rattled out. He counted them ... eighty-five cents. The woman opened a drawer of the table. “And here is his.” The worn wallet contained a great amount of silver and ninety odd dollars in bills. They had meant to start life again with ninety odd dollars.
“They must have been mad,” said McTavish. He touched Philip’s shoulder. “Come ... we’d better go.”
Philip rose in silence, and McTavish turned toward the Bible that lay open on the table. “Was that theirs?” he asked.
“No, that’s mine. I keep Bibles in all my rooms.”
McTavish turned toward the door, and she said, “The bag ... ain’t you going to take the bag?”
McTavish turned toward Philip.
“No,” said Philip. “You may keep it.”
The woman frowned. “I don’t want it. I don’t want any of their things left in my house. I’ve suffered enough. They ruined me. I don’t want my house polluted.”