“By the way,” asked Ashcroft, “who was your wife what was her name, I mean—before her second marriage?”
“She was a Mrs. Cook.”
“Oh, I see,” said Ashcroft, and his face lighted up with surprise and intelligence.
“What do you see?” inquired Dr. Crawford. “I thought your wife’s face was familiar. I met her once when she was Mrs. Cook.”
“You knew her, then?”
“No, I never exchanged a word with her till I met her under this roof.
“How can I tell him that I first saw her when a visitor to the penitentiary among the female prisoners?” Ashcroft asked himself. “My poor friend would sink with mortification.”
They were sitting in friendly chat after their return from their walk, when Mrs. Crawford burst into the room in evident excitement.
“Husband,” she cried, “Peter has brought home a terrible report. He has heard from a person who has just come from Milford that Carl has been run over on the railroad and instantly killed!”
Dr. Crawford turned pale, his features worked convulsively, and he put his hand to his heart, as he sank back in his chair, his face as pale as the dead.