“You’re hard on me, Abner. Just one little glass.”
“You can put that off till afterward. Here, take some lemon soda, or I’ll mix you a glass of lemonade.”
“Well, if I must,” said Floyd, in a tone of resignation.
“You can have as much whisky as you like afterward.”
“Then the sooner we get over the job the better. I’m ready now.”
“Here, Tim, take my place,” said Abner Trimble, calling his barkeeper; “I’m going to the house for an hour. Now come along.”
Abner Trimble lived in a comfortable dwelling in the nicer portion of the city. It belonged to his wife when he married her, and he had simply taken up his residence in her house. He would have liked to have lived nearer the saloon, and had suggested this to his wife, but she was attached to her home and was unwilling to move.
Trimble ushered his visitor into the sitting room and went up to see his wife. She was sitting in an armchair in the room adjoining her chamber, looking pale and sorrowful.
“Well, Mary,” said Trimble, “I’ve brought Floyd along to answer any questions relating to poor Edward’s death.”
“Yes, I shall be glad to see him,” answered his wife, in a dull, spiritless tone.