“I tell you that is all.”
“Humbug! Annie never wrote this letter on the strength of such philandering nonsense as that. You say Isabel must have told her something. What was that something? Do you know?”
“Yes!” The answer was so full of despondent pain, that John’s sympathy rose above his fraternal censariousness.
“Come, my boy,” he said, “you’d better make a clean breast of it. It won’t seem half so bad, once you’ve told me. And if I can help you, you know I will.”
“Well, I will tell you, John. Night before last, Monday night, I had hard words with Albert, up at the house. You know how he sent for me, insisted on my coming, and what he wanted. Of course I could only say no, and we quarreled. Toward the end we raised our voices, and Isabel, who was upstairs, overheard us. Just then he began about me and her—it seems he had noticed or heard something—and she, hearing her name, took it for granted the whole quarrel was about her. I went upstairs, and presently he drove out of the yard with the grays. I couldn’t sleep, I was so agitated by the idea of our rupture, and I went out to walk it off. It was while I was out that I met Annie and had the talk I have told you about. Then I came home, went to bed, and slept till after ten—long after everybody else had heard the news. I heard of it first from Isabel, and she—she——”
He came to an abrupt halt. The duty of saying nothing which should incriminate the woman rose before him, and fettered his tongue.
“And she—what?” asked John.
“Well, she somehow got the idea that I had followed Albert out and—and—was responsible for his death! Now. you have it all!”
There was a long silence. They were nearing the four corners, and walking slowly. Finally John, with his eyes on the ground, said: “And so that’s what she has told Annie, you think?”
“That’s the only way I can explain the note.”