"No. I'm going to make my will," she laughed. "I've only Louis and
Andrew to leave--"
Her aunt kissed her and turned away. Through the open window came the
soft roar of the sea. It was very still to-night; the moon shone across
it, but that she could not see: she had seen it so often that it was
there in her imagination. On Ben Grief the shadows lay inky in the
silver light. She looked at the syringe, and then at the tabloids, and
sighed a little; the pain was a thing tearing and burning; several times
she tried to begin to write and had to lie back with closed eyes
floating away on a sea of horror. Several times her hand quivered
towards the tabloids and came back to the pencil. The shadows seemed to
jostle each other about the room. Kraill's eyes shone out of them for an
instant, blue and impelling. She got a grip on herself and wrote, a word
at a time, making each letter with proud precision:
* * * * *
DEAR PROFESSOR KRAILL,
I am sending you a letter I had from my husband to-day. Have you
forgotten us, and that wonderful thing you did out in the Bush? You told
me then that you liked to interfere in other people's business, but that
they didn't always take the interfering nicely. I want you to know what
your interfering has meant to us.
You will gather from Louis's letter what you meant to him.
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