He heard David move over to the library table; he heard the
rustle of the sheet of paper as it was drawn out of the envelope.
Then silence again, and the clamor of the clock. He turned round,
in time to see David stagger slightly and drop into a chair;
perspiration had burst out on his forehead. He was so white
around his lips that Robert Ferguson knew that for a moment his
body shared the awful astonishment of his soul. "There's some
whiskey over there," he said, nodding toward a side table. David
shook his head. Then, still shuddering with that dreadful
sickness, he spoke.

"She ... has married--Blair? _Blair_?" he repeated,
uncomprehendingly. He put his hand up to his head with that
strange, cosmic gesture which horrified humanity has made ever
since it was capable of feeling horror.

"Yes," Mr. Ferguson said grimly; "yes, Blair--your friend! Well,
you are not the first man who has had a sweetheart--and a
'friend.' A wife, even--and a 'friend.' And then discovered that
he had neither wife nor friend. Damn him."

"Damn him?" said David, and burst into a scream of laughter. He
was on his feet now, but he rocked a little on his shaking legs.
"Damnation is too good for him; may God--" In the outburst of
fury that followed, even Robert Ferguson quailed and put up a
protesting hand.

"David--David," he stammered, actually recoiling before that
storm of words. "David, he will get what he deserves. She was