They sat together on the bench.
"I have an idea that you have been playing Providence once more to
judge by your expression," said Mr. Quin presently.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully. "As if you didn't know
all about it."
"You always accuse me of omniscience," said Mr. Quin, smiling.
"If you know nothing, why were you here the night before
last--waiting?" countered Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Oh! that--"
"Yes, that."
"I had a--commission to perform."
"For whom?"
"You have sometimes fancifully named me an advocate for the dead."
"The dead," said Mr. Satterthwaite, a little puzzled. "I don't
understand."
Mr. Quin pointed a long lean finger down at the blue depths below. "A
man was drowned down there twenty-two years ago."
"I know--but I don't see--"
"Supposing that, after all, that man loved his young wife. Love can
make devils of men as well as angels. She had a girlish adoration for
him, but he could never touch the womanhood in her--and that drove him
mad. He tortured her because he loved her. Such things happen. You know
that as well as I do."
"Yes," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "I have seen such things--but
rarely--very rarely."
"And you have also seen, more commonly, that there is such a thing as
remorse--the desire to make amends--at all costs to make amends."
"Yes, but death came too soon."
"Death!" There was contempt in Mr. Quin's voice. "You believe in a life
after death, do you not? And who are you to say that the same wishes,
the same desires, may not operate in that other life? If the desire is
strong enough--a messenger may be found."
His voice trailed away.
Mr. Satterthwaite got up, trembling a little. "I must get back to the
hotel," he said. "If you are going that way--"
But Mr. Quin shook his head. "No," he said. "I shall go back the way I
came."
When Mr. Satterthwaite looked back over his shoulder, he saw his friend
walking toward the edge of the cliff.