she has become tired of me—of my poverty, of this." He stretched out his arms on either side of him. "She is but a young girl; a young girl soon becomes tired, it is only natural. But I am too much of an egotist. I weary you with trivialities. You must excuse me if I do not offer you to eat or to drink. I beg of you not to require from me too particular reasons for my seeming inhospitality."
Mr. Nash was seated as much at his ease as if he had been paying the most commonplace of calls. He watched M. Gerbert as though he found him unusually interesting, if only as a study. Mr. Kennard wandered about the room. Every now and then he ran his hand through his hair. He paused before a little shelf which was fixed against the wall. The only thing upon it was a photograph. He took this in his hand, and, half absent-mindedly, began to look at it. Suddenly his wits seemed to cease wool-gathering. His eyes flashed. The expression on his face betokened keen attention. He took the photograph to the table, bending over so that the lamp might show him more plainly what it was that he was looking at.
"Who's this?" He was staring as if he experienced a difficulty in crediting the evidence of his own senses. "Why—it's the assassin!"
M. Gerbert had momentarily turned away. At the sound of Mr. Kennard's voice he turned again.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's the individual who found life an insupportable burden."
M. Gerbert went to the table. He saw what Mr. Kennard was holding.
