Her face took on the hue of death. Her lips moved, but for a moment made no sound. Then, with an effort, she replied:
"You're glad—but—why?"
"Because," he replied, with a forced smile on his lips, "the man up at
Branchville was murdered."
She made no sound.
She simply closed her eyes and swayed toward him, weakly collapsing as she fell. He caught her quickly against his breast, a heavy, precious burden that he knew he must love, though the angels of heaven accuse her.
"Dorothy—Dorothy—forgive me," he said, but her senses were deaf to his voice.
CHAPTER XII
A DISTURBING LOSS
Garrison, holding the limp, helpless form in his arms, gazed quickly about the room and saw the couch. He crossed the floor and placed her full length upon its cushions.
She lay there so white and motionless that he was frightened. He felt it impossible to call the Robinsons. He needed water, quickly. He knew nothing of the house. His searching glance fell at once on the vase of roses, standing on the table. He caught it up, drew out the flowers, and was presently kneeling at Dorothy's side, wetting his handkerchief with the water from the vase and pressing it closely on her forehead.