She had been playing with him--leading him on. His visits
to the Old Town, at that quiet hour of the day. . . . No. She had
carried out her infamous plan after ample premeditation.
Mr. Heard stayed at home, burdened with a hideous secret. Practical
questions began to assail him. What should he do? Wait! he concluded.
Something would be sure to turn up. He was too dazed to think clearly,
as yet. He also disliked that fellow. But one does not murder a man
because one happens to dislike him. One does not murder a man . . .
foolish words, that kept on repeating themselves in his mind.
To pardon--yes. Mr. Heard could pardon to any extent. The act of
pardoning: what did it imply? Nothing more than that poor deluded
mortals were ever in need of sympathy and guidance. Anybody could
pardon. To pardon was not enough for a man of Mr. Heard's ruthless
integrity. He must understand. How understand, how interpret, a
dastardly deed like this? What could her motives have been? Of what act
of proposal could the man have been guilty to merit, even in her eyes,
a fate such as this? For evidently, one does not murder a man because
one happens to dislike him--
Denis came to enquire, in the course of the morning.
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