“My darling!” Douglas checked his impetuosity; the dark circles under Eleanor’s eyes had deepened and her extreme nervousness was betrayed by her restless glances about the room and the incessant movement of her fingers. “Now for your thoughts.”
“My thoughts? They are all with Cynthia. Oh, Douglas!”—straightening up,—“I can’t tell her of Fred Lane’s arrest; on top of all she has borne it would be cruel, cruel!”
“Is she better?”
“She is at last sleeping naturally. When she awoke from the opiate, some hours ago, she evinced no interest, and so I was able to avoid the questions which I feared she would ask me.”
“She was probably still under the effects of the opiate and too drowsy to recall the events of last night.”
“I dread her awakening.”
“You will have to put off telling her of Lane’s arrest and Annette’s death until she is strong enough physically to bear the shock.”
“Do you think him guilty?” The question seemed wrung from her.
“Of which crime?”
“Of both.”