"Oh, he had to take that chance—the chance of her never knowing—or else create a scandal. And that would have been very hard on her and on his family. But there were straws she could easily clutch at—as I have clutched at them. The perfect order in which everything happened to be left—even the last notes he had made. His laboratory was a scientist's paradise, they tell me. And the will, made after she threw him over, leaving everything to her. Not a letter unanswered, all little bills paid, and little debts liquidated. He came as near suggesting it as he could, in decency. But I dare say she will never guess it."
"Then what did it profit him?"
"It didn't profit him, in your sense. He took a very long chance on her guessing. That wasn't what concerned him."
"I hope she will never guess, anyhow. It would ruin her life, to no good end."
"Oh, no." Havelock was firm. "I doubt if she would take it that way. If she grasped it at all, she'd believe he thought her right. And if he thought her right, of course he wouldn't want to live, would he? She would never think he killed himself simply for love of her."
"Why not?"
"Well, she wouldn't? She wouldn't be able to conceive of Ferguson's killing himself merely for that—with his notions about survival."
"As he did."
"As he did—and didn't."
"Ah, she'd scarcely refine on it as you are doing, Havelock. You're amazing."