One glance, one swift, penetrating glance, and he knew her.
This then was the man for whom she had left him! This was the cur who had escaped him! Would no peace come for him? Was his life ever to be one of dramatic disclosures and startling episodes?
“Reginald,” he asked, “don’t you know her?” and he held the picture under the gaslight, as they stood in the room.
“Your wife!” and the staring eyes of his friend met his.
“Yes, Reg.,—and—I didn’t kill him! It came from his pocket. I saw it fall, with some papers, when I caught hold of his coat and held him as I cut his accursed lip open.”
He went over to the window to hide his face, and a dead one rose before him.
“Shall I tell him?” he thought. Yes, he would; for in time all would know. Going back to the table, where he had thrown the picture, he took it up, and, turning to his friend, said, simply:
“She is dead, Reginald, and—I forgive her. Leave me, old boy, I would be alone.” And the door soon closed behind departing footsteps.
Alone with his thoughts, he folded his arms in his old way, and walked up and down the long room. Once, as he passed before a handsome sideboard, he stopped, and, taking a decanter of brandy from a shelf, poured some into a tumbler and drank it.
“My first drink in an age!” he thought.