She put those questions in a placid tone, and showed no impatience or scorn.
"No," he said, shaking with conflicting passions, "I do not want your purse. If I wanted money, I could have had as much as any man could care for out of your husband's purse. I have enough for myself. You cured me of the love of money, and put another love in its place. Give me your hand, or fire."
She raised her hand quickly, and flung the revolver from her over the cliff. It fell on the Black Rock beneath. The fall was followed by a long silence on both sides.
"I make one last appeal to you," she cried in soft, supplicating tones--"one last appeal. I do not purpose keeping a penny of the money--not one farthing. Some papers which fell accidentally into my hands after my husband's death convinced me he came by his money dishonestly. He himself told me you had been of great service to him, and that your actions would not bear the light. Give me, for pity's sake, a chance of restoring this money to those who ought to have it. I did think of dying and shielding his memory, for if I died no one could be surprised at my leaving the wretched money to charities. But it would be better still to give what remains of the money to the rightful owners. Will you tell me who they are?"
She caught his hand in hers and drew it towards her.
He seized hers eagerly, and held it.
"I will for this," he whispered. "We can give all his money back if you will."
She snatched her hand away.
"That is impossible, sir. I have told you so finally."
She essayed to pass by him once more.