"Shall
I show the lady in?"
"Yes."
She came. Her frock was of some clinging gray material that made her look
more fairy-like than ever. A drooping veil of gray gauze fell like a mist
before her face, screening from him the anguished mirrors of her eyes.
"Nigel! My poor, poor Nigel!"
"Little 'Toinette!"
"Oh, Nigel--it seems impossible--utterly! That you should be thought to
have killed Dacre. You of all people! Poor, peace-loving Nigel! Something
must be done, dearest; something _shall_ be done! You shall not suffer
so, for someone else's sin--you shall not!"
He smiled at her wanly, and told her how beautiful she was. It was
useless to explain to her the utter futility of it all. There was the
revolver and there the bullet. The weapon was his--of the bullet he could
say nothing. He had only told the truth--and they had not believed him.
"Yes see, dear," he said, patiently, "they do not believe me. They say I
killed him, and Borkins--lying devil that he is--has told them a story of
how the thing was done; sworn, in fact, that he saw it all from the
kitchen window, saw Wynne lying in the garden path, dying, after I fired
at him.
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