“Do you think you have the right to harrow a delicate girl unnecessarily?”
“Have a little patience, Doctor; I am not a brute!”
“And to talk of Mrs. Atkins as you did! Don’t you know that her husband especially wishes to keep her flight secret?”
“I know. But Miss Derwent is no gossip.”
“How do you know?”
“Hold on, Doctor; I’m not in the witness box yet. Can’t you wait a day or two?”
A commotion in the hall put an end to our conversation. Merritt and I looked at each other. Could that be Atkins’s voice which we heard? Indeed it was; and the next minute the man himself appeared, beaming with happiness, and tenderly supporting his wife. Pale and dishevelled, staggering slightly as she walked, she was but the wreck of her former self. Her husband laid her on a divan and, kneeling down beside her, murmured indistinguishable words of remorse and love. She lay quite still, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short gasps. I rushed off for some brandy, which I forced down her throat. That revived her, and she looked about her. When her eyes fell on the detective, she cried aloud and tried to struggle to her feet, but her husband put his arm around her and pulled her down again.
“Don’t be afraid of him. He’s all right.”
“Really?”