I had stolen out of the house, leaving them with their dead. As I closed the gate, and stepped on to the pavement a ragged figure came out of the mist and, standing beside the lamp-post, looked towards the house and the drawn blinds. The light fell on the wasted form and haggard features. I could not mistake; it was John Mazarion.
I went up to him and touched him on the shoulder. He started back and stared at me vacuously.
"She lies there dead," I said.
"Dead!"
"Ay, dead. She died with your name on her lips."
He looked at me stupidly. Then something like a sob burst from him, and with bowed head and shambling steps he turned, and crossing the road went from my life.