"Where? How? Give me the thing, Iris. Quick! Who knows? What is known?"
He snatched the book from her hands. She shrank from his touch, and pushed back her chair, standing in an attitude of self-defence—watching him as one would watch a dangerous creature.
He swiftly read page after page, eager to know the worst. Then he threw the book upon the table.
"Well?" he said, not lifting his eyes.
"The man was murdered—murdered!" she whispered.
He made no reply.
"You looked on while he was murdered! You looked on consenting! You are a murderer!"
"I had no share or part in it. I did not know he was being poisoned."
"You knew when I was with you. Oh! the dead man—the murdered man—was in the house at the very moment! Your hands were red with blood when you took me away—to get me out of the way—so that I should not know—" She stopped, she could not go on.
"I did not know, Iris—not with certainty. I thought he was dying when he came into the house. He did not die; he began to recover. When the doctor gave him his medicine—after that woman went away—I suspected. When he died, my suspicions were stronger. I challenged him. He did not deny it. Believe me, Iris, I neither counselled it nor knew of it."