“Yes,” said Jessie, nodding.
“Well,” said Eve, hesitating—“don’t you think it possible that anybody who hated her very much might—might—”
“Might have killed her?” said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.
“Yes,” said Eve, with a shudder.
Jessie’s eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle’s words a short time before.
“It is very terrible to think on,” said Jessie, slowly.
“Yes,” said Eve, in an agitated voice; “but it is almost more terrible for any one you love—you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away.”
“But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy,” exclaimed Jessie, “except one? and I don’t think Tom Podmore—”
“Hush!” cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend’s arm, “he’s coming now across the field.”
“So he is,” cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind. John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate. John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy. Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone? The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.