THE BETTER SORT
"Then he hasn't been———?" Maud gasped it with him at Bight.
But that genius, clearly, was not less deeply affected. "He's alive?" he breathed in a long, soft wail in which admiration appeared at first to contend with amazement and then the sense of the comic to triumph over both. Howard Bight uncontrollably—it might have struck them as almost hysterically—laughed.
The others could indeed but stare. "Then who's dead?" piped Mortimer Marshal.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Marshal, that you are," the young man returned, more gravely, after a minute. He spoke as if he saw how dead.
Poor Marshal was lost. "But someone was killed———!"
"Someone undoubtedly was, but Beadel somehow has survived it."
"Has he, then, been playing the game———?" It baffled comprehension.
Yet it wasn't even that what Maud most wondered. "Have you all the while really known?" she asked of Howard Bight.
He met it with a look that puzzled her for the instant, but that she then saw to mean, half with amusement, half with sadness, that his genius was, after all, simpler. "I wish I had. I really believed."
"All along?"
"No; but after Frankfort."
She remembered things. "You haven't had a notion this evening?"
"Only from the state of my nerves."
"Yes, your nerves must be in a state!" And somehow now she had no pity for him. It was almost as if she were, frankly, disappointed. "I," she then boldly said, "didn't believe."
"If you had mentioned that then," Marshal observed to her, "you would have saved me an awkwardness."
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