She confided in me yesterday. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. "You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. Killed is too kind a word. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment.
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