“Think what you’re saying! It’s against our religion! Ora ... poor child! ... died over a year ago. I saw you at her funeral, Saul. How can you make such a statement?” “What else can he do?” thrust in Mrs. Rutledge. There was another pause. Bosworth’s resources had failed him, and Brand once more sat plunged in dark meditation. The Deacon laid his quivering finger-tips together, and moistened his lips. “Was the day before yesterday the first time?” he asked. The movement of Rutledge’s head was negative. “Not the first? Then when....” “Nigh on a year ago, I reckon.” “God! And you mean to tell us that ever since—?” “Well ... look at him,” said his wife. The three men lowered their eyes. After a moment Bosworth, trying to collect himself, glanced at the Deacon. “Why not ask Saul to make his own statement, if that’s what we’re here for?” “That’s so,” the Deacon assented. He turned to Rutledge. “Will you try and give us your idea ... of ... of how it began?” There was another silence. Then Rutledge tightened his grasp on his gaunt knees, and still looking straight ahead, with his curiously clear unseeing gaze: “Well,” he said, “I guess it begun away back, afore even I was married to Mrs. Rutledge....” He spoke in a low automatic tone, as if some invisible agent were dictating his words, or even uttering them for him. “You know,” he added, “Ora and me was to have been married.” Sylvester Brand lifted his head. “Straighten that statement out first, please,” he interjected. “What I mean is, we kept company. But Ora she was very young. Mr. Brand here he sent her away. She was gone nigh to three years, I guess. When she come back I was married.” “That’s right,” Brand said, relapsing once more into his sunken attitude. “And after she came back did you meet her again?” the Deacon continued. “Alive?” Rutledge questioned. A perceptible shudder ran through the room. “Well—of course,” said the Deacon nervously. Rutledge seemed to consider. “Once I did—only once. There was a lot of other people round. At Cold Corners fair it was.” “Did you talk with her then?” “Only a minute.” “What did she say?” His voice dropped. “She said she was sick and knew she was going to die, and when she was dead she’d come back to me.” “And what did you answer?” “Nothing.” “Did you think anything of it at the time?” “Well, no. Not till I heard she was dead I didn’t. After that I thought of it—and I guess she drew me.” He moistened his lips. “Drew you down to that abandoned house by the pond?” Rutledge made a faint motion of assent, and the Deacon added: “How did you know it was there she wanted you to come?” “She ... just drew me....” There was a long pause. Bosworth felt, on himself and the other two men, the oppressive weight of the next question to be asked. Mrs. Rutledge opened and closed her narrow lips once or twice, like some beached shell-fish gasping for the tide. Rutledge waited.