She heard a sound beyond the ground glass as though a hand groped before
its fingers found and closed upon the knob. Then slowly the door swung
inward, and Jefferson Edwardes entered. His overcoat hung over one arm,
and, as Mary saw his face, her hands clutched at her heart, but he did
not seem to see her--or to see anything. With a most careful
deliberation the ruined man closed the door silently behind him. He did
it as though he were entering a sick room where he must guard against
disturbing the patient with the slightest sound. Then he took a step or
two forward and halted to stand gazing straight ahead of him, while with
the sleeve of one arm he brushed at his forehead and moistened his lips
with the tip of his tongue.

Mary wondered for an agonized instant whether the cord of his sanity had
snapped under the day's terrific ordeal, and she stood there still
leaning limp and pallid and wide-eyed against the wall, holding before
her the tape that had told her the story--and not realizing that she
held it. Then the man awoke from his sleep-walker's vacancy and realized
her presence. At the sight of her despairing eyes and inert figure
resting for support against the mahogany panels, his expression altered.
His eyes woke to life and, again moistening his lips, he forced the
ghost of a smile which at first succeeded only in being ghastly.

"So you know?" he questioned.

Mary Burton did not reply in words. She could not, but she nodded her
head and something between a groan and a sob came from her parted lips.
Then her voice returned and she murmured in heart-broken
self-accusation: "It was because of me."

He stood shaking himself as a dog shakes off water. His drooped