Everything showed distinctly to him, and he saw with this
wonderful distinctness, that it made no difference whether it was Abner
Revercomb or one of his own multitude of selves that had shot him. It
made no difference--nothing mattered except to regain the ineffable
sense of approaching discovery which he had lost.
"Was it Abner Revercomb?" said the first voice more loudly.
He was conscious now of himself and of his surroundings, and there was
no uncertainty, no hesitation in his answer.
"It was an accident. I shot myself," he said, and after a moment he
added angrily, "Why should anybody shoot me? It would be ridiculous."
It was there again--the unexplored, the incalculable vastness. If they
would only leave him alone he might recover it before it eluded him.
CHAPTER XVI
THE END
In the middle of the afternoon Molly went into the spare room in the
west wing, and stopped beside the high white bed on which Gay was lying,
with the sheet turned down from his face. In death his features wore
a look of tranquil brightness, of arrested energy, as if he had paused
suddenly for a brief space, and meant to rise and go on again about the
absorbing business of living.
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