"Sorry, Hilda—leave him by all means." She certainly looked tired he thought.
In her own room, having dismissed her maid, she threw herself on the bed, and fell to thinking again. Five minutes after she rang the bell.
"Kimber," she said, as the maid appeared, "I am shivering—just put a match to the fire. That will do, thank you; you needn't wait."
As the fire burned up she rose from the bed, and settled herself on the rug by the hearth. Then she took the will from the pocket of her dress and spread it out before her. She read it from beginning to end. And so she learned how Miriam, if she had done this thing, had sacrificed herself in the doing of it. Could she have sacrificed herself like that? No—emphatically no. Could Miriam? She was obliged to confess to herself that she thought she could—and had. But the confession galled her ever so, and she hated her the more for it. And then for a moment she gave way to her hate.
"She shall not have it," she almost hissed; "nor shall she have him much longer. Yes, I'll burn it I'll teach her not to try conclusions with me!"
At that moment her meditations were interrupted. The door opened, and her husband, pale and short of breath, literally burst into the room. Their eyes met. Instinctively she knew that he knew. Without a moment's hesitation she threw the will into the fire. Catching her round the waist he flung her quickly to one side and rescued it.
"Just in time," he panted; "only just in time!"