"Did you, Roady?" She cackled. "Did you?"
"Yes--I did n't know you had _him_ there. And you were making him immortal?"
"I found him, Roady. His eyes were shut, and he was bleeding. It was at dusk, and nobody saw him when I carried him in here. Then I started giving him the herbs--"
"Yes--where the dead sleep. I get the red berries most. That's the blood of the dead, come to life again."
The quaking, crazy voice from below caused Fairchild to shiver with a sudden cold that no warmth could eradicate. Still, however, he lay there listening, fearful that every move from below might bring a cessation of their conversation. But Rodaine talked on.
"Of course, I know. But I 've spoiled that now. There's another way, Laura. Get that spade. See, the dirt's soft here. Dig a hole about four feet deep and six or seven feet long. Then put half that lime from the barrel in there. Understand?"
"It's the only way now; we 'll have to do that. It's the other way to immortality. You 've given him the herbs?"
"Then this is the end. See? Now do that, won't you, Honey?"
"There!" The faint sound of a kiss came from below. "And there's another one. And another!"
"Just like the night our boy was born. Don't you remember how you bent over and kissed me then and held me in your arms?"
"I 'm holding you that way now, Honey--just the same way that I held you the night our boy was born. And I 'll help you with this. You dig the hole and put half the lime in there--don't put it all. We 'll need the rest to put on top of him. You 'll have it done in about two hours. There 's something else needed--some acid that I 've got to get. It 'll make it all the quicker. I 'll be back, Honey. Kiss me."
Fairchild, seeking to still the horror-laden quiver of his body, heard the sound of a kiss and then the clatter of a man's heavy shoes on the stairs, accompanied by a slight clink from below. He knew that sound,--the scraping of the steel of a spade against the earth as it was dragged into use. A moment more and Rodaine, mumbling to himself, passed out the door. But the woman did not come upstairs. Fairchild knew why: her crazed mind was following the instructions of the man who knew how to lead the lunatic intellect into the channels he desired; she was digging, digging a grave for some one, a grave to be lined with quicklime!