Choking back his emotions, he hesitatingly placed his hands on her arms.
“D—don’t you know?” he inquired brokenly.
“Know what?” she demanded.
“I—I——” He hesitated to say the words. “Heavens, Dora, you must have read last night’s paper! Don’t you know that I’m a—a murderer? Oh, Dora, I’m a murderer!”
Her fingers clinched convulsively through his coat and pinched into his shoulders.
“I’ve killed a man—the man who was giving me a chance!” he groaned. “All because of the cursed drink!” And, with his head bowed on her shoulder, he poured forth the story of his fight with Kineally—of his trip to Farmhill—and of his night in the barn. Then his arms relaxed and he gently tried to push her away.
“Don’t touch me, girl!” he told her. “I’m a murderer—not fit to touch!”
Her arms slipped about his neck, and she held him closer.
“I won’t leave you—I won’t!” she cried. “Oh, Bob! don’t you know that I love you? We’ll go somewhere together.”
“No!” he protested. “Why, Dora, I’m haunted. I lay up there in the loft last night and heard music—that dreadful, unearthly music; and Kin—his face kept coming before me out of the darkness. No; I’m going to give myself up and have it over with.”