A white, drawn face approached the grating. Annie sprang forward.
"Howard!" she sobbed.
"Is it you, Annie?" came a weak voice through the bars.
"Can't I go in to him?" she asked pleadingly.
The keeper shook his head.
"No, m'm, you must talk through the bars, but I won't disturb you."
He walked away and the husband and wife were left facing each other. The tears were streaming down Annie's cheeks. It was dreadful to be standing there so close and yet not be able to throw her arms around him. Her heart ached as she saw the distress in his wan, pale face.
"Why didn't you come before?" he asked.
"I could not. They wouldn't let me. Oh, Howard," she gasped. "What a dreadful thing this is! Tell me how you got into such a scrape!"
He put his hand to his head as if it hurt him, and she noticed that his eyes looked queer. For a moment the agony of a terrible suspicion crossed her mind. Was it possible that in a moment of drunken recklessness he had shot Underwood? Quickly, almost breathlessly, she whispered to him: