“Who are you? What does this mean?” she faltered at last.
“I am this man’s wife, that’s what I am, and we have one child, which you can see any day if you will come to my place, Ellen Post.”
“I don’t believe it. Mahone, Mahone, come here and tell this woman she lies.”
“Oh Robert, Robert, run for your life. Jared is in prison; they will be after you,” pleaded the poor wronged wife. “Don’t wait for anything, but go.”
“Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you deny this?” demanded Ellen Post, stamping her whitely-clad foot on the side-walk.
“The gentleman has something else to do,” answered the strange voice of a man who had quietly drawn near and laid his hand on Mahone’s shoulder.
“Robert Boyce, you must go with me.”
“A policeman!” faltered the bride, “what does this mean?”
“A policeman,” moaned the wife; “oh Robert, Robert, say you forgive me!”
Boyce turned his wild eyes from his wife to the officer, and stared a moment in the man’s face. Then he made a sudden twist, wrenched himself free, and made a bound forward—one bound and the heavy hand grasped his shoulder again.