"
The curate turned an amazed gaze
upon him.
"What is it?" he asked.
Dart withdrew his hand from his
pocket, and the pistol was in it.
"I came out this morning to buy
this," he said. "I intended--never
mind what I intended. A wrong
turn taken in the fog brought me
here. Take this thing from me and
keep it."
The curate took the pistol and put
it into his own pocket without comment.
In the course of his labors
he had seen desperate men and
desperate things many times. He had
even been--at moments--a desperate
man thinking desperate things
himself, though no human being had
ever suspected the fact. This man
had faced some tragedy, he could see.
Had he been on the verge of a crime
--had he looked murder in the eyes?
What had made him pause? Was
it possible that the dream of Jinny
Montaubyn being in the air had
reached his brain--his being?
He looked almost appealingly at
him, but he only said aloud:
"Let us go upstairs, then."
So they went.
As they passed the door of the
room where the dead woman lay
Dart went in and spoke to Miss
Montaubyn, who was still there.
"If there are things wanted here,"
he said, "this will buy them." And
he put some money into her hand.
She did not seem surprised at the
incongruity of his shabbiness producing
money.
"Well, now," she said, "I WAS
wonderin' an' askin'. I'd like 'er
clean an' nice, an' there's milk
wanted bad for the biby."
In the room they mounted to Glad
was trying to feed the child with
bread softened in tea.
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