"Let's sit down," Ruth said.
"You sit down," Byrne bid. "I'll—" he did not finish his sentence; but he remained standing, hands behind him, staring down at her as she seated herself upon the bench.
"Now," he said to her.
His lips pressed tight and Ruth could see that he jerked with short spasms of emotion which shuddered his shoulders suddenly together and shook his whole body.
Ruth had desired the light instinctively, with no conscious reason; the same instinct which made her need to see him before she could go on, probably affected him; but with him had been the idea that the light would banish the illusion which overswept him again and again that this girl still was his Cynthia. But the faint, flickering illumination from the candle had failed to do that; it seemed, on the contrary, at times to restore and strengthen the illusion. A better light might have served him more faithfully; and if he brought her close to the candle and scrutinized her again as he had under the light of the street, he would see surely that she was someone else. But here, Ruth realized, she was falling into the postures of the girl who was dead.
"Cynthia!" Byrne whispered again to her.
"What I know about Cynthia Gail," Ruth said to him gently then, "is this." And she told, almost without interruption from him, how Cynthia had met her death. Ruth did not explain how she had learned her facts; for a while the facts themselves were overwhelming enough. He made sure that he could learn nothing more from her before he challenged her as to how she knew.
