“And Vail was not a lawyer,” she asked breathlessly, “nor Neale one of the executors?”

“In my judgment the fellows merely took those names to impose upon me, to help bolster up their story, and make it appear probable.  They were simply two crooks, willing to take a chance for a pot of money.  I happened to be the one selected to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.”

I saw her head sink into the support of her hands, and knew she was sobbing silently.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER

“You think my conclusions must be correct?” I could not refrain from asking.

“Yes; even without seeing the letter, but,” and she glanced up quickly, “the ring—­Philip’s ring—­we found?”

“I forgot to mention that.  Its presence here alone is convincing.  It was sent to Charles Henley by his agent, who claimed to have removed it from the finger of the dead man.”

“Then every doubt is removed; the one killed was my hus—­husband.”

There was a long, painful silence, during which I stared out into the dark, mechanically guiding the boat, although every thought centered on her motionless figure.  What should I say? how was I to approach her now?  Before there had always been a frank spirit of comradeship between us; no reserve, no hesitancy in the exchange of confidences.  But with this assurance of Philip Henley’s death, everything was changed.  I longed to go to her and pour out my sympathy, but some instinct held me back, held me wordless.  I knew not what to say, or how any effort on my part would be received.  Instantly there had been a barrier erected between us which she alone could lower.  Those were long minutes I sat there, speechless, gazing straight ahead, my brain inert, my hand hard on the tiller.  Suddenly, with a swift thrill which sent my blood leaping, I felt the soft touch of her fingers.

“Are you afraid to speak to me?” she asked, pleadingly.  “Surely I have said nothing to anger you.”

“No, it is not that,” I returned in confusion, not knowing how to express the cause of my hesitancy.  “I am sorry, and—­and I sympathize with you, but I hardly know how to explain.”

She was looking at me through the darkness; I was able to distinguish the white outline of her uplifted face.

“I am sorry—­yes,” very slowly, “but perhaps not as you suppose.  It is hard to think of him as dead—­killed so suddenly, without opportunity to think, or make any preparation.  He—­he was my husband under the law.  That was all; he was no more.  I do not believe I ever loved him—­my marriage was but the adventure of a romantic girl; but if I once did, his subsequent abuse of me, his life of dissipation, obliterated long since every recollection of that love.  He is to me scarcely more than a name, an unhappy memory.  I told you that frankly when I believed him still alive.  We were friends then, you and I, and I cannot conceive why his death should sever our friendship.”