“What about Stella? She is bound to learn.”
“I wrote to her last night,” said Herold. “I prepared her for the shock as best I could.”
A gleam of rational thought flitted across John Risca’s mind.
“You remembered her at such a time, with all you had to do? You’re a wonderful man, Wallie. No one else would have done it.”
“Are you in a fit state of mind,” said Herold, “to understand what has happened? I tried to tell you this morning,”—as he had done fitfully,—“but it was no use. You grasped nothing.”
“Go on now,” said John. “I’m listening.”
So Herold, amid the fripperies of Miss Lindon’s drawing-room, told the story of his summons to the Channel House some time ago—Good God!—He caught himself up sharply—it was only yesterday! and of his talk with Stellamaris in the garden, and of her encounter with the evil woman, and of the poison that had crept to the roots of Stella’s being.
John shivered, and clenched impotent fists. Stella left alone on the cliff-edge with that murderous hag! Stella’s ears polluted by that infamous tale! If only he had known it! Why did she hide it from him? It was well the murderess was dead, but, merciful Heaven, at what a price!
“Listen,” said Herold, gravely, checking his outburst; and he told of his meetings with Unity,—it was essential that John should know,—of her almost mystical worship of Stellamaris, of their discovery of the revolver—
“Poor child!” cried John, “I bought it soon after I went to Kilburn. I took it out the other day and played with a temptation I knew I shouldn’t succumb to. I should never have had the pluck.”