Her eyes were still intensely black, her forehead worried.
“No.”
“And the difference?”
“The place was here—just in front of the stump of that old espalier. There was nothing but earth and weeds. No stones.”
“I put the stones there,” said Brent.
She gave him a quick gleam of the eyes.
“You?”
“Yes, after you had gone. I thought the thing would look more natural. Then I went to bury my friend. After that—I was taken prisoner.”
She remained calm, judicial, compelling herself to a cool realization of the fact that this man had kept faith with her, if all that she had buried there was under the soil. And then, another thought prompted her to ask him a question.
“You say, monsieur, that you came back to see the grave of your friend?”