“I—want to hear about your escape, Dick,” she said aloud.
There was a long pause. At last he turned to her with a simplicity as strange as it was new. “And I—want to tell you, Guida. I—came to tell you. But I don’t quite know how to do it without hurting you.” His eyes were infinitely kind. “You’ve been so good to me, you see.”
She looked at him. “Don’t think of me,” she said clearly; “I knew from your letter there was something you wanted to tell me. Don’t think of me, except that I want to listen. And always want to—help, if I can. . . Wait till I get settled comfy. There. Go on.”
He leaned forward and touched her hand an instant. “You’re a dear,” he said, rather huskily; “you’ve been listening to my tales for—five years or so, isn’t it? Well, listen to the last. Your friendship’s been the best thing those five years have known.”
Her eyes were like steel as she said with careful lightness, “But why speak of it in the past tense, Richard?”
He was silent; she felt his kindness reaching out to her as he had reached his hand; a kindness somehow pitiful. At last he said quietly, “Because—this time—I believe it really will be good-bye, Guida. I don’t think I shall come back.”
“You mean. . . ?”
His eyes met hers, gravely, across that strange distance. “I mean—if there’s any justice, or any mercy, in earth or heaven, I can’t come back.”
She said at once. “You’ll have to tell me the whole thing. You owe me that.”
“Yes, I owe you that. . . and so much more! If only I can make you understand. . .”