Mr. Satterthwaite spoke for some time. He recited the whole history of
events.
"So you see, I was in time," he ended up. He paused and added quite
gently, "Have you anything to--say?"
He expected something, some outburst, some wild justification. But
nothing came.
"No," said Philip Eastney quietly, and turned on his heel and walked
away.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked after him till his figure was swallowed up
in the gloom. In spite of himself, he had a strange fellow feeling
for Eastney, the feeling of an artist for another artist, of a
sentimentalist for a real lover, of a plain man for a genius.
At last he roused himself with a start and began to walk in the same
direction as Eastney. A fog was beginning to come up. Presently he met
a policeman who looked at him suspiciously.
"Did you hear a kind of splash just now?" asked the policeman.
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
The policeman was peering out over the river.
"Another of these suicides, I expect," he grunted disconsolately. "They
will do it."
"I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that they have their reasons."
"Money, mostly," said the policeman. "Sometimes it's a woman," he said,
as he prepared to move away. "It's not always their fault, but some
women cause a lot of trouble."
"Some women," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite softly.
When the policeman had gone on, he sat down on a seat with the fog
coming up all around him, and thought about Helen of Troy, and wondered
if she were a nice, ordinary woman, blessed or cursed with a wonderful
face.