"That one that came to you--this morning."

"_Your_ telegram?"

"Yes."

"Did you send me one?"

"Yes."

"It did not come to me."

"Yes--it did."

"But there--What was it about?"

"It was signed," she said, "it was signed--" She paused and turned half
way, not lifting the downcast lashes; her hand, laid upon the arm of the
bench, was shaking; she put it behind her. Then her eyes were lifted a
little, and, though they did not meet his, he saw them, and a strange,
frightened glory leaped in his heart. Her voice fell still lower and two
heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. "It was signed," she whispered, "it
was signed--'H. Fisbee.'"

He began to tremble from head to foot. There was a long silence. She had
turned quite away from him. When he spoke, his voice was as low as hers,
and he spoke as slowly as she had.

"You mean--then--it was--you?"