“Yes—there is time.” A dry sob choked her. He heard the catch in her voice, but he did not move his eyes from the ground. His heart seemed to have grown curiously heavy; a strange inertia weighted his limbs. Fear, anger, bitterness, nay, revenge itself, had died out, leaving not a tranquil mind but a tired one. The pulse scarcely beat in his body. After a while the apathy of mind and body appeared to rest him. He was so tired of hate.
“Give me the keys,” she whispered. “Is it in there? Where is the plate? In that room? Give me the keys.”
As in a dream he handed her his keys. Through a lethargy which was almost a stupor he saw her enter his house; he heard her unlock the door of the room where his plates lay. After a moment she found a match and lighted the candles. Helm sat heavily on the steps, his head on his breast, dimly aware that she was passing and repassing, carrying bottles and armfuls of tools and paper and plates out into the darkness somewhere.
It may have been a few minutes; it may have been an hour before she returned to him on the steps, breathing rapidly, her limp gown clinging to her limbs, her dark hair falling to her shoulders.
“The plates and acids will never be found,” she said, breathlessly; “I put everything into the swamp. It is quicksand.”
For a long time neither spoke. At length she slowly turned away towards the gate, and he rose and followed, scarcely aware of what he was doing.
At the gate she stooped and pushed a dark object out of sight under the bushes by the fence.
“Let me help you,” he said, bending beside her.
“No, no; don’t,” she stammered; “it is nothing.”
He found it and handed it to her. It was her crutch; and she turned crimson to the roots of her hair.