And thus pretty Rose Alstine had assisted in a criminal act without realizing it.
The police debated about arresting the girl, but in the end concluded not to do so. They were a chagrined lot, however, who returned to the station.
In the meantime Andrew Barkswell, safely disguised, hurried to the house in the suburbs where he had left his wife alone, and, as he believed, dying.
He was therefore surprised to find her still breathing, as he entered the room where she lay on a low couch, with the room in shadow.
"How are you feeling, Iris?"
He paused an instant at her bedside and gazed down into the sunken face.
"I—I feel bad, very bad."
"Curse it, I wish you were dead!" He did not utter the words aloud, however. Instead he drew a chair to the side of the bed and smoothed the dark hair from her white brow, and pretended to feel the deepest sympathy for her sufferings.
"You remained away a long time, Andrew," murmured the thin lips of the sick wife.
"Did you miss me, dear?"