“Mr Wimble, whom do you mean?”
“Mean? who should I mean,” he cried tragically, “but that wretch in yonder room?”
“A murderer!”
“Yes, of the man who drove him from his home. I denounce him as the murderer of poor old Gartram, and—”
There was a wild shriek, and as Chris Lisle rushed into the room to see what was wrong, Wimble remembered his promise to the lawyer; but too late: the box was wide open now.
“Mrs Sarson—Wimble! what is the matter?”
“Oh, Mr Lisle,” cried the widow, sobbing wildly. “Oh, my poor darling, he says you murdered Mr Gartram. Tell him he is mad.”
Sarah Woodham was seated an hour later that night sewing, when she was startled by the sudden entrance of Reuben, the gardener, looking wild-eyed and strange, and she involuntarily rose from her chair, and stood upon the defensive, the other servants being down the town, and her heart telling her that “this foolish man,” as she termed him, was about to renew advances which he had been making before.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, quickly grasping the meaning of her action; “I wasn’t going to say anything about that now. Have you heard?”