‘But we can afford to judge her duplicity less harshly, because she has paid the extreme penalty of it—the heaviest penalty which can be exacted.’
‘What?’
Hartover’s lips formed the words, although no sound issued from them.
‘She and Marsigli had a violent altercation, with accusations and abuse on both sides. In a fit of ungovernable fury he stabbed her.’
Again the boy’s lips formed a soundless question, while from white his face went grey. Sweat broke out on his forehead; but he still remained composed, still looked at me steadily.
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘Fédore is dead.’
Then his eyes closed, and I myself turned queerly cold and faint. He looked so young, so almost fragile, that it seemed an intolerable cruelty thus to deal him blow on blow. I could have cried aloud to him to forgive me; yet to hesitate, still more to plead for myself, would be a greater cruelty still.
‘You are quite sure of—of your facts, Brownlow?’ he said, at last.
‘Quite sure,’ I answered. ‘The police had traced Marsigli to the house on a former occasion. They were watching for his coming, and called on me to identify him. I was present. I saw what took place.’