5:25 a.m. —There Was a Sailor
Mrs. Siddons had not gone to bed at all. She remained the same amazing pencil done in flat planes of black that had left him standing with his ear pressed against the panels of her bedroom door.
Lieutenant Valcour was acutely interested in her attitude toward Endicott’s body. Her glance, the instant she entered the room, had flown to it surely and accurately. There was no sorrow, no horror or fear of the dead in that glance. It was wholly one of triumph, the satisfied gazing of some revenge that was removed from petty commonplaces. Mirrored in its satisfaction were avenging hell fires, tormenting presumably the black and wicked soul of what had been a very black and wicked Endicott. After that single initial glance she did not look toward the bed again, but came over and sat with extraordinary rigidity on the edge of a chair from where she could stare out of the window at the clear morning light of the winter’s day.
“Several hours ago, Mrs. Siddons,” Lieutenant Valcour said abruptly, “you spoke with considerable bitterness about Mr. Endicott’s attitude toward the servants. I shan’t embarrass you by asking for any information in detail. There are only one or two things that I want to know—Are you listening to me, please?”
She dragged her eyes from the daylight, from the white misty air from which she had been gathering in her thoughts the happy flowers of a seed long bedded in hate.
“I am listening,” she said.