He had passed more than one wakeful night during the last few months arguing and arguing again whether or no he should have disclosed to Sylvia the meaning of that softly opening door and the shadow on the ceiling as he read it.

He might have been wrong; if so, he would have added to Sylvia's burden of troubles yet another, and one more terrible than all the rest.
He might have been right; and if so, he might have enabled Sylvia to avert a tragedy.

Thus the argument had revolved in a circle and left him always in the same doubt.

Now he understood that his explanation of the incident had been confirmed.

The loud whistle from the darkness of the road, the yokel's cry, which had driven Garratt Skinner from the room, as noiselessly as he had entered it, had done more than that--they had driven him from the neighborhood altogether.