"Why did you carry it off, doctor?"
"Because the poor child died of suppressed scarlet fever," he answered, "and I took it to be disinfected."
"That's a new name for an ill deed," said Jean.
"It's quite true—the child's throat showed what it died of," he said.
"It died of neglect," said Jean, obstinately. "How was the poor young thing to know how to deal with it? Fever or no fever, the man's a cruel-hearted man, and shall never come near her again."
"You say a truthful thing in saying that," said the doctor, in a low voice. "Mr. Drayton died this morning."
"No!" exclaimed Grace. "He seemed such a strong man when I last saw him," and she shuddered, for since the days when she had laid ill and had urged Margaret to marry him for her own selfish ends she had never seen him to speak to, excepting once.
Jean was silent. There was a verse in her heart but she would not say it out just then.
"He was a violent man," said the doctor. "It is quite dreadful to think of that poor child in such a man's power. He had a terrible attack of passion in the asylum—a blood-vessel in the brain gave way, and all was over in a few minutes."
"There are so many things I cannot understand," said Grace, who felt those last days too much to speak about them. "Surely Margaret must have consulted a doctor. Why did he not interfere? He must have seen that that wretched man was insane."