For a long while Mrs. Hart could only cry and utter inarticulate syllables of grief.
By and by Hetzel asked, “Can you tell us how she came to go down there—to Mr. Peixada’s place?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hart. “It was my fault. I advised her to. You see, this is the way it happened. After Arthur had left the house this morning, Ruth picked up the newspaper. She was just glancing over it—not reading any thing in particular—when all at once, she gave a little scream. I asked her what it was; and she said, ’Look here.’ Then she showed me the advertisement that he has spoken of. ’Would you pay any attention to it?’ she asked. I read it, and considered, and then asked her what action her impulse prompted her to take. She said that she hardly knew. If there was something they wanted of her, which was right and proper, she supposed she ought to do it; but she hated to have any dealings with Peixada. ’I thought Judith Peixada had been dead two years,’ she said; ’but now she comes to life again just when she is least expected.’ I suggested that she might write a letter. But on thinking it over she said, ’No. Perhaps the best thing I can do will be to go at once and beard the lion in his den. I shall worry about it otherwise. I may as well know right away what it is. After lunch I’ll go down-town and call upon Mr. Peixada; and then I’ll surprise Arthur in his office, and bring him home.’ Then I—I said I thought that was the best thing she could possibly do,” Mrs. Hart interrupted herself to dry her eyes. Presently, “You see, it was my fault,” she resumed. “I ought to have suspected that they meant foul play; but instead, I let her walk straight into their pitfall. Right after lunch, at about halfpast one, she started out. She promised to be home again by four o’clock. When she didn’t come and didn’t come, I began to get more and more anxious about her. I was almost beside myself, when at last you arrived.”
Hetzel said, “It is bad enough to think of her being locked up in prison, but that is not the worst. I’m sure we can get her out of prison; and although I don’t know the first thing about the case, I’m sure that we can prove her innocence. The trouble now is this. She’s suffering all manner of torments, because she totally misconceives her husband’s part in the transaction. Our endeavor must be to put her husband’s conduct before her in the right light—make her understand that he acted all along in good faith, and without the faintest suspicion that she and Judith Peixada were one and the same. She was so much incensed at him this afternoon, that she wouldn’t let him justify himself. We must set this mistake right tomorrow morning. I think that you, Mrs. Hart, had better visit her as early to-morrow as they will admit you, and—”
“Of course I will,” interpolated Mrs. Hart.
“—And tell her Arthur’s side of the story. When she understands that, she’ll feel like another woman. Then he can see her, and talk to her, and find out the facts of the case, and lay them before the authorities. It seems to me that this is the plain course to take.”
“And meanwhile, meanwhile!” cried Arthur, wringing his hands.
“Come,” said Hetzel, “show your grit. Look at Mrs. Hart. See how bravely she bears up. Do you want to make it harder for every one by your example?”
“Mrs. Hart isn’t her husband,” Arthur retorted.
Then he bit his lip and kept silence. Mrs. Hart sat bolt upright, staring at vacancy, with brows knitted into a tight frown. Hetzel tugged away at his whiskers, and was evidently thinking hard.