“The girl is Isabel Munn’s daughter.”
I saw a tremor shake the gaunt frame.
“When we buried Isabel Munn, you came back in the night to weep at her grave.”
He thrust out a warding hand toward me.
“Why did you weep over Isabel Munn’s grave, Bartholomew?”
“Speak no evil of the dead,” he cried wildly.
“It is not in my mind. She was a good and pure woman. What would she have been if she had listened to you?”
“What do you know? Who betrayed me?”
“You, yourself. When you came down with pneumonia after the burial, I sat with you through a night of delirium.”
Bartholomew Storrs bowed his head.