"You see, Major, I was right; poor Jabez did not kill Mr. Barton."
He did not reply. He could not bear to hurt her; but even in the face of what had happened he found it difficult to remove the suspicions which had for long past occupied his mind.
"Miriam, take my word for it, we shall never know the truth. Personally speaking, my one desire is to keep the whole matter in abeyance. Now that Jabez is dead I am the more able to do that. The fact of his absolute guilt or innocence of my uncle's death need not weigh with me. As for this man Farren, there is no need for me to charge him. If, in the ordinary course of things, his prosecution comes about, I suppose of necessity we shall both be brought into it. But failing that, I feel very unwilling to stir the thing. The atmosphere of it has become repellent to me. Guilty, or not guilty, he may go scot free so far as I am concerned. I think you had better destroy that letter."
"Yes; you are right. It is best so."
At that moment the "cook-general" entered with a telegram. Resignedly Miriam opened it.
"I am here ill. Will you come to me? Gerald. Griffin Hotel,"
she read. The place of despatch was Dover. She handed it to the Major.
"Will you come with me?" she asked.
"You really mean to go?"
"What would you have me do? He is my husband. He is very ill—dying, if my instinct tells me truth."