Part 35 (1/2)

At last he said faintly: ”Marmion, shall I die soon?”

I knew that frankness was best, and I replied: ”I cannot tell, Roscoe.

There is a chance of your living.”

He moved his head sadly. ”A very faint chance?”

”Yes, a faint one, but--”

”Yes? 'But'?” He looked at me as though he wished it over.

”But it rests with you whether the chance is worth anything. If you are content to die, it is gone.”

”I am content to die,” he replied.

”And there,” said I, ”you are wrong and selfish. You have Ruth to live for. Besides, if you are given the chance, you commit suicide if you do not take it.”

There was a long pause, and then he said: ”You are right; I will live if I can, Marmion.”

”And now YOU are right.” I nodded soothingly to him, and then asked him to talk no more; for I knew that fever would soon come on.

He lay for a moment silent, but at length whispered: ”Did you know it was not a fall I had?” He raised his chin and stretched his throat slightly, with a kind of trembling.

”I thought it was not a fall,” I replied.

”It was Phil's pal--Kilby.”

”I thought that.”

”How could you--think it? Did--others--think so?” he asked anxiously.

”No, not others; I alone. They thought it accident; they could have no ground for suspicion. But I had; and, besides, there were marks on your throat.”

”Nothing must happen to him, you understand. He had been drinking, and--and he was justified. I wronged him in Samoa, him and Mrs.

Falchion.”

I nodded and put my fingers on my lips.

Again there was silence. I sat and watched him, his eyes closed, his body was motionless. He slept for hours so, and then he waked rather sharply, and said half deliriously: ”I could have dragged him with me, Marmion.”

”But you did not. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep again, Roscoe.”

Later on the fever came, and he moaned and moved his head about his pillow. He could not move his body--it was too much injured.

There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he recklessly announce what he had done, and the cause of it? After thinking it over and over, I concluded that he would not disclose his crimes. My conclusions were right, as after events showed.

As for Roscoe, I feared that if he lived he must go through life maimed.

He had a private income; therefore if he determined to work no more in the ministry, he would, at least, have the comforts of life.

Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him that she wished to see him. He smiled sorrowfully and said: ”To what end, Marmion? I am a drifting wreck. It will only shock her.” I think he thought she would not love him now if he lived--a crippled man.