Late that day Canaris came, looking like a man escaped from a great shipwreck, with nothing left him but his life. Unannounced he entered, and, with the brevity which in moments of strong feeling is more expressive than eloquence, he said,—
“I am going.”
“Where?” asked Helwyze, conscious that any semblance of friendship, any word of sympathy, was impossible between them.
“Out into the world again.”
“What will you do?”
“Any honest work I can find.”
“Let me”—
“No! I will take nothing from you. Poor as I came, I will go,—except the few relics I possess of her.”
A traitorous tremor in the voice which was stern with repressed emotion warned Canaris to pause there, while his eye turned to Olivia, as if reminded of some last debt to her. From his breast he drew a little paper, unfolded it, and took out what looked like a massive ring of gold; this he laid before her, saying, with a softened mien and accent,—
“You were very kind,—I have nothing else to offer,—let me give you this, in memory of Gladys.”