But, as he rose from the chair beside her low bed, she put out her hand to him.
“K.”
“Yes, dear.”
“He was out with Carlotta. He promised, and he broke his promise.”
“There may have been reasons. Suppose we wait until he can explain.”
“How can he explain?” And, when he hesitated: “I bring all my troubles to you, as if you had none. Somehow, I can't go to Aunt Harriet, and of course mother—Carlotta cares a great deal for him. She said that I shot him. Does anyone really think that?”
“Of course not. Please stop thinking.”
“But who did, K.? He had so many friends, and no enemies that I knew of.”
Her mind seemed to stagger about in a circle, making little excursions, but always coming back to the one thing.
“Some drunken visitor to the road-house.”