‘My wife can hear aught I’m accused of,’ he said.
‘Of the murder of Richard Meadowes,’ said the man low into Philip’s ear. He did not mean Carrie to hear; but she, leaning forward, caught the words. There was a moment’s dismayed silence. Then Carrie shrieked aloud—three sharp little screams, and fell back against the pillows.
‘Come,’ said Philip, ‘I am ready to go with you.’ At the door he turned and came back to where Carrie lay, white and scared, staring after him.
‘ ’Tis some mistake, Carrie; have no fear,’ he said. ‘And, Peter, fetch me a coat and a pair of shoes.’
The day wore on somehow for Carrie after Phil’s arrest; she sat idle, hour by hour, looking for news of him and getting none. Late in the day she sent Peter out to make inquiries, but when he returned it was to bring her very scant comfort.
‘There was great excitement in town over the murder; nothing was known, no news was to be had,’ said Peter, but he concealed the half that he had really heard on all sides. Meantime Phil was detained for examination.
‘In prison—Phil in prison!’ cried poor Carrie incredulously. ‘Why, I thought to see him back ere half an hour had gone. O Peter, what can I do? ’Tis unbelievable.’
Peter was dumb with distress; he did not know what to think—the whole matter seemed to him like an ugly dream.
‘Mayhap Mr. Philip will return home on bail, madam,’ he said lamely, the only comfort he could suggest.
‘But that any one should even suppose him to have done it!’ sobbed Carrie. Ah, that was the sting.