I am afraid I'll
have to explain to my wife, because she saw your apprehension. But
nobody else need know. Except--I must tell Dr. Lavendar, of course;
but not until after the funeral. There is no use complicating things.
But other people can just think it was an accident. It was, in one
way. He was insane. Everybody is, who does--that. Poor Samuel! Poor
Mrs. Wright! I could not leave them; but I thought you had gone home,
or I would have come. Mrs. Richie, promise me one thing: promise me
not to feel it was your fault."
She dropped her face in her hands. "Not my fault! ... I killed him."
CHAPTER XXIV
"He was cleaning his father's pistol, and it went off--" the poor,
dazed mother said, over and over. The father said nothing. He sat, his
elbow on his knee, his forehead resting in the palm of his hand.
Sometimes his heavy eyes glanced up, but he did not lift his head. He
had hardly spoken since the accident. Then, he had said to William
King:
"I suppose he undertook to clean my revolver. He always did things at
queer times. I suppose it went off. It had a tricky hammer. It went
off. By accident--not... He hadn't any reason to... He said, only
yesterday, when he got back, that he couldn't stay away from home any
longer. He said he _had_ to come home. So, you see, there isn't any
reason to think... He was cleaning it. And it went off. The hammer
was tricky.
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