‘Nothing,’ said Marlow with a slight start.  ’He had told her—­that’s all.  She did not believe him—­nothing more.  As to myself, I do not know whether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry.  For my part, I cannot say what I believed—­indeed I don’t know to this day, and never shall probably.  But what did the poor devil believe himself?  Truth shall prevail—­don’t you know Magna est veritas el . . .  Yes, when it gets a chance.  There is a law, no doubt—­and likewise a law regulates your luck in the throwing of dice.  It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune—­the ally of patient Time—­that holds an even and scrupulous balance.  Both of us had said the very same thing.  Did we both speak the truth—­or one of us did—­or neither? . . .’

Marlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone—­

’She said we lied.  Poor soul!  Well—­let’s leave it to Chance, whose ally is Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not wait.  I had retreated—­a little cowed, I must own.  I had tried a fall with fear itself and got thrown—­of course.  I had only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the dark.  And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her own act!  It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable destiny of which we are the victims—­and the tools.  It was appalling to think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim’s footsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in his heavy laced boots.  “What?  No lights!” he said in a loud, surprised voice.  “What are you doing in the dark—­you two?” Next moment he caught sight of her, I suppose.  “Hallo, girl!” he cried cheerily.  “Hallo, boy!” she answered at once, with amazing pluck.

’This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she would put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty, and childlike.  It delighted Jim greatly.  This was the last occasion on which I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill into my heart.  There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the swagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call sounded like a moan.  It was too confoundedly awful.  “What have you done with Marlow?” Jim was asking; and then, “Gone down—­has he?  Funny I didn’t meet him. . . .  You there, Marlow?”

’I didn’t answer.  I wasn’t going in—­not yet at any rate.  I really couldn’t.  While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape through a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared ground.  No; I couldn’t face them yet.  I walked hastily with lowered head along a trodden path.  The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been felled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired.