"Then the end came. Had I been less young, had I been less hopeful for him, less wrapped up in him, I must have foreseen it. We were playing cards in his apartments. His housekeeper and his baby girl were in a distant room. They were in bed. You see, it was late at night. It was the last hand. His luck had been diabolical, but the stakes were comparatively low. I shall never forget the scene. His nerves were completely shattered. He picked up his hand, glanced at it--we were playing poker--jack pots--and flung it down. 'I'm done,' he cried, and, kicking back his chair, rose from the table. He moved a pace away as though to go to the side-table where the whisky and soda stood. I thought he meant having a drink. His back was turned to me. The next moment I heard shots. He seemed to stumble, swung round with a sort of jerk, and fell face downward across the table.
"I jumped to his assistance. But--he was dead. He had shot himself through the heart and in the stomach. My horror? Well, it doesn't matter now. I was utterly and completely unnerved. If I hadn't been perhaps I should have acted differently. I should have called his--housekeeper. I should have summoned the police--a doctor. But I did none of these. My horror and grief were such that I--fled; fled like the coward I was. Nor did I simply flee from the house. I left everything, and fled from the city that night. It was not until some days afterward that I realized what my going meant to me. You see, I had left behind me, in his housekeeper, the woman I loved--and had insulted past forgiveness. I was branded as his murderer. Do you see? She loved him, and was his housekeeper. Oh, there was nothing wrong in it! I knew that. His baby girl was the child of his dead wife. Several times I thought of returning to establish my innocence, but somehow my conduct and my story wouldn't have fitted in the eyes of a jury. Besides, there was that insulted woman. She had accused me of the murder. It was quite useless to go back. It meant throwing away my life. It was not worth it. So I came here."
Buck offered no comment for a long time. Comment seemed unnecessary. The Padre watched him with eyes striving to conceal their anxiety.
Finally, Buck put a question that seemed unnecessary.
"Why d'you tell me now?" he asked. His pipe had gone out and he pushed it into his hip-pocket.
The Padre's smile was rather drawn.