“Shall we have a lamp, or the fireplace?” she asked, then inferentially answered by saying that a cool wind was blowing down from the mountains. “I had the maid build the fire,” she continued, and he could see the outline of her form bending over the grate. She struck a match; its glow lit up her cheeks and hair; in a moment the dry wood was crackling and ribbons of blue smoke were curling into the chimney.
“I have been so anxious to see you—again,” she said, drawing a chair not far from his. “A chance remark of yours last night brought to memory many things—things I have been trying to forget.” Then, abruptly, “Did you ever kill a man?”
“You know I was in the war,” he returned, evading her question.
“Yes, and you do not care to dwell on that phase of it. I should not have asked you, but you will be the better able to understand. For years I have lived under the cloud of having killed a man.”
“You!”
“Yes. The day of the fire—you remember?”
Grant had started from his chair. “I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “There must have been justification!”
“YOU had justification at the Front, but it doesn’t make the memory pleasant. I had justification, but it has haunted me night and day. And then, last night you said he was still alive, and my soul seemed to rise up again and say, ‘I am free!’”
“Who?”
“Drazk.”