"It's the man! I should know him anywhere!" she cried in a voice
that sounded in her own ears like a scream.

Parvis's voice seemed to come to her from far off, down endless,
fog-muffled windings.

"Mrs. Boyne, you're not very well. Shall I call somebody? Shall
I get a glass of water?"

"No, no, no!" She threw herself toward him, her hand frantically
clenching the newspaper. "I tell you, it's the man! I KNOW him!
He spoke to me in the garden!"

Parvis took the journal from her, directing his glasses to the
portrait. "It can't be, Mrs. Boyne. It's Robert Elwell."

"Robert Elwell?" Her white stare seemed to travel into space.
"Then it was Robert Elwell who came for him."

"Came for Boyne? The day he went away?" Parvis's voice dropped
as hers rose. He bent over, laying a fraternal hand on her, as
if to coax her gently back into her seat. "Why, Elwell was dead!
Don't you remember?"

Mary sat with her eyes fixed on the picture, unconscious of what
he was saying.

"Don't you remember Boyne's unfinished letter to me--the one you
found on his desk that day? It was written just after he'd heard