She replied quickly. "No. What killed him was something he did alone. He was that sort, you see, always getting into things."
"I see," said Dave and released her. He was satisfied. The man, who evidently was the one who had meant most to her, was dead; nothing could be more final than that.
"We'll get out of this," he said confidently. "Somebody's carried out almost every winter that there's skating on the lake."
He expected her to ask what happened to the skaters and how long they drifted before being rescued; but she did not, so he told her. "If it's daylight, they're picked up right away, of course. If it's night, half the time the ice drifts back to shore by morning or a tug comes out from Chicago and finds you."
He realized that she was not hearing him; her thought was back in the past where he had sent it.
"I should have come in," she said, after a minute. "That's the way with me. I guess I like to get into things, too," she admitted. "You told me about the ice the other morning. Why I could see it floating out there—out here," she corrected exhilaratingly and stamped a heel on their hard floor. "But I wanted to get far out; I thought I'd dare the wind. 'You can't hurt me!' I said. I thought if the ice goes out, I'll go with it but I bet I'll be all right. I almost wanted to take a chance. I get that way sometimes. But I should have thought about you."
"Me?" said Dave. "Why? What's there to this? We walk around on the ice all night; that's all."
"I shouldn't have done it," Fidelia said and Dave
