“It is, indeed,” I replied; “and the hospital authorities give no hope of her husband’s recovery.”
“I suppose there is no doubt that he killed the man?”
Here we were again on this dangerous topic, and I glanced quickly at her, fearing a repetition of last night’s attack.
She noticed my hesitation, and laughed.
“Oh, you needn’t be so afraid of what you say. I ain’t going to faint again. I want to know the truth, though, and I can’t see why you shouldn’t tell me.”
“Well, if you insist upon it,” I said, “here it is: I really don’t know whether he is guilty or not; I have been convinced that he was till very recently, but Merritt (the detective, you know) has always been sceptical, and maintains that a woman committed the murder.”
“A woman,” she repeated, turning her eyes full on me. “But what woman?”
“Merritt refuses to tell me whom he suspects, but he promises to produce the fair criminal before next Tuesday.”
We walked on for about a block, when, struck by her silence, I looked at her, and saw that she had grown alarmingly pale. I cursed myself for my loquacity, but what could I have done? It is almost impossible to avoid answering direct questions without being absolutely rude, and as I knew the detective did not suspect her I really could not see why she should be so agitated.
“I guess I’m not very strong,” she said; “I’m tired already, and think I’ll go home.”