He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more. He died in the war.
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