"
"A life of self-denial," ventured I. I waited a minute, and then added:
"Roscoe, I think it only fair to tell you--I don't know why I haven't
done so before--that when you were ill you were delirious, and talked of
things that may or may not have had to do with your past."
He started, and looked at me earnestly. "They were unpleasant things?"
"Trying things; though all was vague and disconnected," I replied.
"I am glad you tell me this," he remarked quietly. "And Mrs. Falchion and
Justine Caron--did they hear?" He looked off to the hills.
"To a certain extent, I am sure. Mrs. Falchion's name was generally
connected with--your fancies.... But really no one could place any weight
on what a man said in delirium, and I only mention the fact to let you
see exactly on what ground I stand with you."
"Can you give me an idea--of the thing I raved about?"
"Chiefly about a girl called Alo, not your wife, I should judge--who was
killed."
At that he spoke in a cheerless voice: "Marmion, I will tell you all the
story some day; but not now. I hoped that I had been able to bury it,
even in memory, but I was wrong.
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