A pungent odor of smoke filled her nostrils. She groped for the light and turned it on.
Through little horizontal wisps of smoke she saw Harboro lying across the bed, his great chest standing high, his muscular throat exposed to the light, a glint of teeth showing under the sweeping black mustache. His eyes, nearly closed, seemed to harbor an eager light—as if he had travelled along a dark path and saw at last a beacon on a distant hilltop. A pistol was still clasped in his dead hand.
The unopened phial Sylvia carried slipped to the floor. She clutched at her lips with both hands, to suppress the scream that arose within her.
He had no right to lie so, in this room. That was her thought. He had taken the place she had chosen for her own.
And then she thought of Harboro as a stranger, too. Had she ever known him, really?
Her first thought recurred. It should have been her right to lie here in the guest-chamber, not Harboro’s.
And yet, and yet....
The End