“We have gone through this together, for reasons clear to both of us. There is nothing you can say to me. But one or two things I must say to you. You killed him. Your contempt for him as a weaker man than you, as a gentle and sweet soul you could never comprehend; your wish to manage him, to thwart him in things he wanted to do, your wish to mold him and set him in your own little groove--these are the things that destroyed him. You shattered his faith in me--that is the crudest thing of all, for he loved me. So strong was your power over him and so great was his fear of you that he believed you. In spite of himself he believed you when you charged me with unfaithfulness. You drove him mad,” she went on monotonously; “he died a madman--died horribly, carrying an innocent man down with him. The child Shep wanted so much--that he would have loved so dearly--is his. You need have no fear as to that. That is all I have to say, Mr. Mills.” She left him noiselessly, leaving behind her a quiet that terrified and numbed him. He found himself groping his way through the hall, where someone spoke to him. The words were unintelligible, though the voice was of someone who meant to be kind. He walked to his car, carrying his hat as if he were unequal to the effort of lifting it to his head. The chauffeur opened the door, and as he got in Mills stumbled and sank upon the seat. When he reached home he wandered aimlessly about the rooms, oppressed by the intolerable quiet. One and another of the servants furtively peered at him from discreet distances; the man who had cared for his personal needs for many years showed himself in the hope of being called upon for some service. “Is that you, Briggs?” asked Mills. “Please call the farm and say that I’m coming out. Yes--I’ll have dinner there. I may stay a day or two. You may pack a bag for me--the usual things. Order the car when you’re ready.” He resumed his listless wandering, found himself in Leila’s old room, and again in the room that had been Shep’s. It puzzled him to find that the inspection of these rooms brought him no sensations. He felt no inclination to cry out against the fate that had wrought this emptiness, laid this burden of silence upon his house. Leila had gone; and he had seen them put Shep into the ground. “_You killed him._” This was what that woman in black had said. She had said other things, but these were the words that repeated themselves in his memory like a muffled drum-beat. On the drive to the farm he did not escape from the insistent reiteration. He was mystified, bewildered. No one had ever spoken to him like that; no one had ever before accused him of a monstrous crime or addressed him as if he were a contemptible and odious thing. And yet he was Franklin Mills. This was the astounding thing,--that Franklin Mills should have listened to such words and been unable to deny them....