"Andrew, oh, Andrew!"
It was a rebuking cry, but it failed to touch the calloused heart of the being before her.
"You have tormented me continually, Iris," he said, with cool deliberation, "and now my hour of triumph has come."
He laughed hoarsely.
He seemed to enjoy the ghostly horror exhibited on the face of his devoted wife.
"Let me tell you what I have done," he proceeded, with the malice born of a devil's nature. "I get rid of you to make room for another."
"Spare me, Andrew," moaned the pallid lips of the dying woman, already foam-flecked from the effects of the inward workings of the poison last administered.
"I will not. You tormented me until life become a burden, harping on my shortcomings. You are too good for this world, Iris—just proper for an angel, and so 'tis best for you to go. I have found one who will fill your place to perfection, and make me a happy man, since she brings wealth to back her claims. I speak of Rose Alstine. She has promised to wed me as soon as you are dead—we have it all arranged!"
Heartless, wicked, woeful words.
As he came to a pause the sick woman uttered a great, gasping cry, and went into convulsions, foam and blood flecking her lips.