"Of course you hated him. How could a lady help hating him?" murmured the questioner. "But would you have the courage to kill him--that's what I want to know!"
Under the inquisition Mrs. Marteen half roused to consciousness. She was in the semi-lucid state of a sleepwalker.
"Kill him!" She held up her hands and looked at them as she had done after reading the account of the murder. "I'm not sure I didn't kill him; perhaps I did--I can't remember--I can't remember," she moaned more and more faintly.
"Don't you take the credit of that!" shouted the woman, so loudly that a young man who had been aimlessly walking up and down as if intent upon some rendezvous, stopped short to gaze at them keenly.
The older woman, with a movement so rapid that it seemed almost prestidigitation, lifted and threw back her companion's veil. The young man gave a start and approached hastily, amazement in every feature. But the two women were unaware of his presence, and what he next heard made him pause, turn, and by a slight detour come up close behind the bench.
"Keep your hands off. Don't you say you killed him. What right have you to take his life, I'd like to know! Don't let me hear you say that again--don't you dare! Just remember that killing him is my business. You sha'n't try to rob me--it's my right!" She leaned forward threateningly.
A hand closed over her wrist. The woman screamed.
"Hold on, Mother, none of that." The young man, still retaining his hold, came from behind the seat and stood over her.
She began to whimper and tremble. "Don't hit me," she begged pitifully. "Don't hit me, and I'll be good, indeed, I will."
Mrs. Marteen had taken no notice of her providential protector. Her head was sunk upon her breast and her hands hung limp in her lap.