Theodore glanced at the titles of those neatly arranged volumes and saw that they were mostly upon scientific subjects.
“I did not know that you were fond of science, Juanita?” he said.
“I am not. I used to hate it. I am as ignorant as a baby. I don’t believe I know any more about the moon than Juliet did when she accused it of inconstancy. Only when one comes to my age one ought to improve one’s self. Godfrey will be asking me questions before I am much older—and when he wants to know whether the earth goes round the sun or the sun round the earth, I must be prepared to answer him.”
She spoke with a nervous air, facing him in the soft clear lamplight, her hand upon the row of books, her eyes eager and questioning.
“You have seen my father, Theodore. Is the embargo removed?”
“It is.”
“And you know who murdered my husband?”
“So far as the assassin’s own confession is to be believed, yes.”
“He has confessed—he is in prison—he will be hanged,” she cried breathlessly.
“The murderer has confessed—but is not in prison—and will not be hanged—at least I trust not, in God’s mercy.”