“Woman!” said Ashcroft, sternly, “I believe you have killed your husband!”
“Oh, don’t say that! How could I be so imprudent?” said Mrs. Crawford, clasping her hands, and counterfeiting distress.
Ashcroft set himself at once to save his friend from the result of the shock.
“Leave the room!” he said, sternly, to Mrs. Crawford.
“Why should I? I am his wife.”
“And have sought to be his murderer. You know that he has heart disease. Mrs.—Cook, I know more about you than you suppose.”
Mrs. Crawford’s color receded.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. She had scarcely reached the door, when there was a sound of footsteps outside and Carl dashed into the room, nearly upsetting his stepmother.
“You here?” she said, frigidly.
“What is the matter with my father?” asked Carl.