Margaret had drawn a chair to the bedside, thinking that the girl could tell her story, whatever it was, better to her than to a stranger.
"What is it, Rosalie? Tell me then if it will ease your mind in the least. What have you ever done to me!"
"What have I done?... She asks me what I have done! Oh, madam—look away from me—and listen. 'Twas I who—who killed him!"
"She is delirious," said Margaret, in an undertone, and laid a wet cloth on her head. But Richard De Jarnette bent forward, watching the woman with a quick comprehension that took in all she said and was supplying more.
"I am not delirious," said Rosalie, sadly. "I think I have been all these month that I have had the shelter of your roof and eaten your bread. Now I have come to myself. And whatever the result you must know the truth."
"What does she mean?" asked Margaret, turning to the others.
"Let her tell her story in her own way," suggested Mrs. Pennybacker. She saw that the girl's breath was becoming labored.
"Yes. Listen to me while I have strength to talk. And then—forgive ... if you can. The man that wrought my ruin was your husband—and I killed him."
"My husband died by accident," Margaret said with white lips. "He said so with his dying breath."
"Then he spoke falsely—even in death," said the woman, "for I killed him!"