"These days the world is full of death," he answered. "What are one or two here?"
The voice carried as little expression as the face or the figure, but an accent, which Garth knew, hindered its flow, and defined the situation with a brutal clearness.
He turned at a slipping behind him, a heavy fall. Alden lay on the floor, his hand stretched towards the futile spot of white beneath the table. His wife stumbled across and knelt beside him, restlessly fingering his shoulders.
"Andrew!" she cried. "You don't understand. Look at me. You have to understand. I love you. Nothing changes that."
The newcomer moved to her, and, without relaxing his vigilance, grasped her arm.
"There's too much to be done to-night for tears. Keep your watch."
He indicated Garth.
"I'll come back and attend to him later."
She continued to stare at her husband's closed eyes.
"He knows now, but you shan't kill him. I tell you you shan't kill him."
"When the occasion arises you will follow your duty," he said.
He turned to Garth, pointing to the oak door in the rear corner.
"You will go in there."
A flashing recollection of Nora decided Garth.
