Faunce stared at him in blank dismay.
“My God, do you think I killed him? Do you imagine that?”
“There are some fine shades, then, between abandoning him to die and actually killing him?”
“I’m not a murderer!”
Dr. Gerry laughed bitterly.
“I may be a coward,” Faunce pursued with rising passion, “but I’m no murderer! I swear to you, on my soul, that I never thought of Diane there. I never thought of anything but flight. It was a kind of madness. If it had been my brother, I should have had to do the same thing. I was mad, mad with fear!”
The doctor uttered an inarticulate sound, stooped, and, seizing the tongs, picked up a smoking log that had rolled out to the fender and pitched it back into the fire. The physical action seemed to relieve the tension of his feelings. He settled back in his chair and waited for Faunce to go on with his confession.
Dr. Gerry’s view of the tragedy seemed to have destroyed some remaining stronghold in the younger man’s mind. Faunce kept reiterating his protest in one form or another.
“Listen—I’m not a murderer! If I had killed him, I never should have returned here.”
“Oh, yes, you would! Ninety-nine men out of a hundred return to the scene of their crimes.”