"I meant what I said," she answered, with
emphasis. "Within one year, Mr. Le Geyt will have murdered his wife. You
may take my word, for it."
"Le Geyt!" I cried. "Never! I know the man so well! A big, good-natured,
kindly schoolboy! He is the gentlest and best of mortals. Le Geyt a
murderer! Im--possible!"
Her eyes were far away. "Has it never occurred to you," she
asked, slowly, with her pythoness air, "that there are murders and
murders?--murders which depend in the main upon the murderer... and also
murders which depend in the main upon the victim?"
"The victim? What do you mean?"
"Well, there are brutal men who commit murder out of sheer
brutality--the ruffians of the slums; and there are sordid men who
commit murder for sordid money--the insurers who want to forestall their
policies, the poisoners who want to inherit property; but have you
ever realised that there are also murderers who become so by accident,
through their victims' idiosyncrasy? I thought all the time while I
was watching Mrs. Le Geyt, 'That woman is of the sort predestined to
be murdered.'... And when you asked me, I told you so. I may have been
imprudent; still, I saw it, and I said it.
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