She started, stung by his formal words, and fetched writing materials. As he wrote out the certificate, she went into the next room. When she returned, Sommers got up and crossed toward her, impelled by an irresistible desire to know.
"I have said that death was due to congestion of the brain, indirectly resulting from illness and operation for the removal of a bullet."
Mrs. Preston stared at him, her face curiously blank, as though to say,
'Why are you so cruel?' He offered her the wisp of paper.
"Put it there!" she cried, motioning to the mantelpiece.
The doctor placed the certificate on the mantel, and then returned to his chair by the lamp.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked abruptly.
"I have done—the necessary things—he will be buried to-morrow afternoon."
Her words came with an effort, as if every voluntary act caused her pain.
"I am sorry that I did not come earlier, to save you these tasks," the doctor answered more gently. "Isn't there some one you would like to send for, some relative or friend?"
She shook her head, looking at him with beseeching eyes. Then they were silent, until the silence was too much to be borne. Sommers rose hastily to take leave.