He had caught the last of Folsom’s remark.
“What’s that you say of suicide?” he demanded excitedly.
Folsom looked at him blankly.
“I said,” he answered slowly, “that my old friend had committed suicide, and I fear it was some hasty, angry words of mine that drove him to it.”
Claymore looked sharply at the speaker, and recalled his face.
That conversation on the street was not easy to forget, though Claymore had taken no part in it.
Evidently Folsom did not remember that he had ever seen Claymore before.
He had spoken to the clergyman without noticing that a stranger stood near.
“I think you’re wrong,” said Claymore, still looking straight at Folsom.
“I wish I could think so,” responded Folsom sadly; “but I spoke to Judson very harshly. I thought I had reason to be angry, and I guess I had, but I should not have spoken in that way. I came here just now to beg his pardon. He said at the time that he should die, and I told him he’d better. Heavens, to think that I should have hounded him to his death!”