d have turned
sooner to Jenny. To what end? Her message forbade the one thing which it
was in my mind to do--go to her directly. She would not have it; she
would be--as she was--alone. I had no thought of disobedience--only a
great sorrow that I must obey. I read the telegram again. "Jenny
Driver!" She had hesitated too long. Ways could not be kept open
forever. Mr. Powers had taught her this truth once, and she had not
hearkened. Death himself came to enforce the lesson. She stood no longer
between the fascination that she loved and feared and the independence
which she cherished and yet wearied of. She was free perforce; the
tenure of her liberty was no longer precarious; and the joy of her heart
was dead. Her equipoise--another of her delicate balancings--was
hopelessly upset; when Death flung his weight into one of her scales,
the other kicked the beam.

So long as I was alone, it did not occur to me to think of the bearings
of the event--and of its announcement--on her outward fortunes. My mind
was with herself--asking how she faced the thing, in what mood it left
her; nay, going back to the days before it, viewing them in the alien
light of their sudden end. Not what would be said or thought, but what
was, engrossed my meditation. Death brings that color to the mind; it
takes us "beyond these voices." But they who live must soon return
within hearing.

I did not hear Cartmell come in--I had been out before breakfast, and I
believe I had left my door ajar. His hand was on my shoulder before I
was aware of his presence. He held a morning paper in his hand, but he
did not show it to me directly. He looked down in my face as I sat in my
arm-chair and then said, "You've heard, haven't you?"

"Yes," I answered, giving him Jenny's telegram.

He read it. "This must be between you and me, Austin. So far, there's
nothing in the paper to show that she was there--to show who the woman
was, I mean."

"The woman?"

"The woman mentioned in the paper. Read it." He pushed it into my hand.
His practical mind did not waste itself in memories or speculation; it
flew to the present need. I had lost myself in wonderings about the man
and the woman; he was concerned solely with our local institution--Miss
Driver of Breysgate. He was right.

The telegram in the paper came from Reuter's news agency. "A quarrel in
the Cafe de l'Univers last night resulted in a duel this morning, in
which an Englishman named Octon was mortally woun