They were talking it over when the sound of Flora’s voice stopped them. She was standing in the doorway very white and very calm. Stokes was asking for them. Yes, she nodded in answer to Rawson’s look, he was quite himself. The doctor had wanted him to wait till he was stronger but he had insisted: “He says he must speak now while his mind is clear. He seems to know it won’t last and he can’t rest till he’s told everything.” They found him bolstered up in bed, a haggard spectacle, his eyes, sunk in darkened hollows, seemed to hold all the life left in his body. They hung on the entering men, then swerved to his wife and he made a motion for her to sit beside him. When she had taken her place and he had groped for her hand, his eyelids dropped and he lay for a moment as if gathering strength. “I’m glad you’ve come,” he whispered. “Glad it’s over. If I’m going on now it can’t be to anything worse than this last thirty-six hours.” The desire to free his mind possessed him. Rest, he said, rest was all he wanted and it was not for him till he had unloaded the intolerable burden he had carried since Sybil Saunders’ death. In his own words the recital was broken by digressions, memories of his torturing passion, assurances of good intentions that failed of execution, remorse for the wrong he had done his wife. Robbed of the theatrical quality that was of the man’s essence, it was the stark revelation of a soul’s tragedy. He had never intended to kill her--that was the one point of exculpation he insisted on. His love had made him mad, carried him beyond the inhibiting forces of honor, feeling, reason. That it was hopeless seemed to increase its obsessing power, and she had never for one moment led him to think it was anything but hopeless. Unwaveringly, from the first, her attitude had been dislike, aversion, a horror of his state of mind and himself. His knowledge of the coming separation had been the igniting motive that caused the inner explosion. After their stay on the island she would go her way, keep her whereabouts hidden from him, and he might never see her again. The thought became unbearable, and led him to a resolution of wild desperation--he would get her alone, once more confess his passion, and if she met it with the old scorn and abhorrence, kill himself before her eyes. He had seen the revolver in the drawer of the desk and on the day of the performance, taken it. To prevail upon her to grant him the interview was the problem, and the evil inspiration came to him to tell her he had news of Dallas, her lover. It was a lie, he knew nothing of the man, but truth, decency, self-respect no longer existed for him.