If I had been a pup, I would
have fitted my tail neatly between my legs and made for home. But I
wasn't a pup, so I headed straight for Ria's flat to face the music. *       *       *       *       *

They were waiting for me, she and Tod. When I saw her, I wished I were
dead. She lay in Tod's arms, her body a mere whisper of a body. White and cold
she was, like frozen milk on a cold winter's day. They were both dead. You know how it is when at a wake someone views the deceased and says
kindly, "She's beautiful," and "she" isn't beautiful at all; just a
made-up, lifeless handful of clay. Dead as dead, and frightening. Well,
it wasn't that way this time. Their fair skins were faintly pink-tinted
and their blonde heads, hers ashen and his a reddish cast, gleamed
brightly. And they sat so close in the sofa before the fire, his head
resting in the hollow of her throat. They looked--peaceful; no line
marred their faces. I almost fancied I saw them breathe. And on her
third finger, left hand, was the ring--a thin, platinum band. He had
won, and in winning somehow he had lost. How they had died and why they
found each other and death at the same time, I would probably never
know. I only knew one thing: I had to get away from there--quickly. I
almost ran the distance to my flat. Stumbled into the place and poured a
triple Scotch which I could scarcely hold. The Scotch seared my throat
and tasted bitter; someone must have poured salt in it. Then I realized
that it was tears--my tears. I, Bill Morris, who hadn't cried since my
fifth birthday--I was sobbing like a baby. I didn't call the police. That would mean I would have to go back and
watch them cover that lovely body, carry it away and submit it to untold
indignities in order to ascertain the cause of death. The cleaning girl
would find them in the morning and would notify the police. But it wasn't so simple as that. In the morning I found I couldn't shake
off the guilt which possessed me. Even two bottles of Scotch hadn't
helped me to forget. I was dead drunk and cold sober at the same time. I phoned Ria's landlady and told her I had failed to reach the Hunters
by phone, that I was sure something was amiss. Would she please go to
their flat and see if anything was wrong. She was amused. "Really, Mr. Morris, you must be mistaken. Miss Maria
went out just an hour ago with her new husband. Surely you are jesting. Why she has never looked better. So happy. They have left for
_Konigstein_. They have also left you a note. I told her I would be right over, and hopped a cab. I began to think I
was losing my mind. I had seen them both--dead. The landlady had seen
them this morning--_alive!_"

When I arrived, the landlady looked at me for a long moment, taking in
my rough, dark-blue complexion, unpressed clothes, red-rimmed eyes, then
wagged a finger playfully. "You are playing a joke, no? A wedding joke, maybe. Here, too, we haze
newlyweds. But of course I understood. Who could help loving Miss Maria? Be of good heart, young man. For you there will be another, some day. But I talk too much. Here is your letter." I went where I would be undisturbed, to the reading room of the library
on the same street as my flat. To the musty, oblong, dimly lit room
whose threshold sunshine and fresh air dared not cross. Without the
saving warmth of sunlight or the fresh, clean relief of sweet-smelling
air, I read. Read, inhaling the pungent, sour smell of the Scotch I had
consumed during the long, sleepless night. Read, and then doubted that I
had read at all--but the blue ink on the white paper forced me to
acknowledge its actuality. It had been written by Hunter, in a neat,
scholar's script. _Dear Morris_: (It began)

_Why should I not have wanted Maria? You did; others doubtless did. Why
then should she not be mine? There are many things worse than being
married to me; she might have married a man who beat her!_

_With her I have known the two happiest days of my life. I want no more
than that. I have no right to ask for more. Have we, any of us, a right
to endless bliss on this earth? Hardly._

_You thought of her welfare above all; for that I owe you some
explanation. You must be patient, you must believe, and in the end, you
must do as I ask._ You must. _You wanted to know about me--of my life before Maria. Before Maria? It
seems strange to think about it. There is no life without Maria. Still,
there was a time when for me she didn't exist. I have been constantly
going forward to the day when I would meet her, yet there was a time
when I didn't know where I would find her, or even what her name would
be!_

_It was chance that brought us together. For me, good chance; for you,
possibly ill chance; for Maria? Only she can say. Some three years ago I
was studying in England under a Rhodes Scholarship. The future held
great things for me. I was a Yank like yourself, and damn proud of it. Life in England seemed strange and slow and sometimes utterly dismal
under Austerity. Then, little by little I slipped into their slower
ways, growing to love the people for their spunk, and finally coming to
feel I was one of them, so to speak._

_I have said everything slowed down: I was wrong. Studying intensified
for me. The folklore of the British Isles intrigued me. I delved into
the Black Welsh tales, the mischievous fancies of the Irish, the English
legends of the prowling werewolf. For me it was a relief from political
science, which suddenly palled and which smacked of treason in the light
of current events. My extracurricular research consumed the better part
of my evenings. My books were and always have been a part of me, and as
was to be expected, I overdid it. I studied too hard with too little
let-up. Sometimes it seemed to me there was more truth to what I read
than myth. It became somewhat of an obsession. Suddenly, one night,
everything blacked out._

_I came to in a sanatorium. I didn't know how I got there, and when they
explained it to me, I laughed. I thought they were joking. When I tried
to get up, to walk, I collapsed. Then I knew how bad it had been. I
knew, too, I would have to go slowly._

_It was there I met Eve. She was beautiful. Not like Maria, who is like
a fragile, fair, spun-sugar angel. Eve was more earthy, with skin like
ivory, creamy and rich and pale. Her blue-black hair she wore long and
gathered in the back. She looked about twenty-five, but a streak of pure
white ran back from each of her temples. She was the most striking woman
I have ever met. I had never known anyone like her, nor have I since I
saw her last._

_You know how it is: the air of mystery about a woman makes a man like a
kid again. She reminded me of a sleek, black cat, with her large, hazel
eyes. I bumped into her one day on the verandah, and spent every day
with her after that._

_The doctors wanted me to take exercise--short walks and the like, and
Eve went with me, struggling to keep up with me. The slightest effort
tired her.