“My soul! man, you seem to drive the nails into my coffin with each question.”
“Answer, Joe.”
“She does dress in black—most maids do in New York now.”
“Wear a white apron?”
“No,” with a gleam of hope.
“Neither did this girl. I knew she was a maid by the courtesy she made when handing Prescott the letter, and also from the little white cap she wore.”
Poor Joe’s last chance seemed gone—the other had knocked away the pins upon which his house was built.
“That was probably Nanny, but I can not and will not believe Lillian wrote that note. Some other party had hired Nanny to give it to that man.”
Darrell knew Joe was hugging a phantom to his heart, but he could not take pleasure in arguing with the deceived husband—besides, Joe’s actions proved that he believed more than he would admit either to himself or his confidential adviser, and if the blow did come it would not be such a terrible shock as if he had received no warning.
The end was not far away.