Herold continued, telling him all he knew—all save that of which he stood self-accused, and which for the present was a matter between him and his Maker. And Miss Lindon, fondling on her lap a wheezy pug, the successor to the Dandy of former days, who had been gathered to his fathers long ago, listened in placid bewilderment to the strange story of love and crime.
“I’m sure I don’t understand how people think of such things, let alone do them,” she sighed.
“You must accept the fact, dear Miss Lindon,” said Herold, gently.
“God’s will be done,” she murmured, which in the circumstances was as relevant a thing as the poor lady could have uttered. But John sat hunched up in a bamboo chair that creaked under his weight, and scarcely spoke a word. He felt very unimportant by the side of Unity—Unity with whose strong, passionate soul he had dwelt in blind ignorance. And Unity was dead, lying stark and white in the alien house.
After a long silence he roused himself.
“You wrote to Stella, you said?”
“Yes,” replied Herold.
“What will happen to her?”
“I don’t know.”
John groaned. “If only I had protected her as I ought to have done! If only I had protected both of them!”