“I don’t want to, sir.”
“You couldn’t if you did,” replied Winthrop.
The Major shot a puzzled glance at him, rolling his unlighted cigar swiftly around in the corner of his mouth. Then he deluged the Baltimore Bell with tobacco-juice and went on:
“Fernald was plumb out of his head about her. His own wife had been dead some years. Nothing would do but she must run away with him. Well——”
“Did the lady live here?” asked Winthrop.
“Godamighty, no, sir! We don’t breed that kind here, sir! She lived in New Orleans; her husband was a cotton factor there. Well, Fernald begged her to run away with him, and after a lot of hemming and hawing she consented. They made an appointment for one night and Fernald was there waiting. But the lady didn’t come. After awhile he went back to his hotel and found a note. She was sorry, but her husband had bought tickets for the opera for that evening. Eh? What? There was soul for you, Mr. Winthrop!”
Winthrop nodded.
“So the lover blew his brains out, eh?”
“Shot a hole in his chest; amounted to about the same thing, I reckon,” answered the Major, gloomily. “Now what do you think of a woman that’ll do a thing like that?”