wife--was not afraid. She stood up in her ravishing dishevelment, with
that mantle of gold he had worshipped streaming about her to her knees,
_and she laughed_? Yes, she laughed--a mad sort of laugh; a laughter of
fear, perhaps--but--_laughter_. So he did not kill them. Her
laughter--the man's cowardice--saved them. He turned. He closed the
door. He left them. He went out into the night."

He paused, as though his story was finished.

"And that is--the end?" asked Father Roland softly.

"Of his dreams, his hopes, his joy in life--yes, that was the end."

"But of your friend's story? What happened after that?"

"A miracle, I think," replied David hesitatingly, as though he could not
quite understand what had happened after that. "You see, this friend of
mine was not of the vacillating and irresolute sort. I had always given
him credit for that--credit for being a man who would measure up to a
situation. He was quite an athlete, and enjoyed boxing and fencing and
swimming. If at any time in his life he could have conceived of a
situation such as he encountered in his wife's room, he would have lived
in a moral certainty of killing the man. And when the situation did come
was it not a miracle that he should walk out into the night leaving them
not only unharmed, but together? I ask you, Father--was it not a
miracle?"

Father Roland's eyes were gleaming strangely under the shadow of his
broad-brimmed black hat. He merely nodded.