"I think I understand," murmured Drake.

"Come," said the sheriff, arousing himself with an effort.

She moved swiftly after him. Drake and the coroner, following
close behind with Mrs. Burton, could not take their eyes from the
slender, graceful figure. She was a revelation to them. Feeling as
they did that she was about to be confronted by the most appalling
crisis imaginable, they could not but marvel at her composure.
Drake's mind dwelt on the stories of the guillotine and the heroines
who went up to it in those bloody days without so much as a quiver
of dread. Somehow, to him, this woman was a heroine.

They passed into the hall and mounted the stairs. At the far end
of the corridor, a man was seated in front of a closed door. He
arose as the party approached. The sheriff signed for him to open
the door he guarded. As he did so, a chilly blast of air blew upon
the faces of those in the hall. The curtains in the window of the
room were flapping and whipping in the wind. Mrs. Wrandall caught
her breath. For the briefest instant, it seemed as though she was
on the point of faltering. She dropped farther behind the sheriff,
her limbs suddenly stiff, her hand going out to the wall as if for
support. The next moment she was moving forward resolutely into
the icy, dimly lighted room.

A single electric light gleamed in the corner beside the bureau.
Near the window stood the bed. She went swiftly toward it, her
eyes fastened upon the ridge that ran through the centre of it: a
still, white ridge that seemed without beginning or end.