Then—he did not know how it happened—the little bottle toppled, fell, and struck the stone hearth, splashing its contents into the dying embers. There was a leap of yellow flame, which an instant later had become vivid scarlet, changing as quickly to crimson, deep purple, then to a flare of blinding white, and was gone.
Carringford, startled for a moment, sat gazing dumbly at the ashes of his dying fire.
“The question has decided itself,” he said.
A LAST MESSAGE
BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD
DEAR, I lie dying, and thou dost not know—
Thou whom of all the world I love the best,
And wilt not know until I lie at rest,
With lips forever closed and lids dropped low.