I love her—a woman upon whom the gravest suspicion rested of having purchased a deadly drug for some nefarious purpose. Truly in the fitful fever of life the decree of Fate is oft-times strange. Men have loved murderesses, and women have, before now, given their hearts, nay, even their lives, to shield cowards and assassins.
Suddenly a movement behind me brought me back to a sense of my surroundings, and I saw that Dick had returned.
“Why, you’re back very early,” I said. “Have you been down to the Crystal Palace?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered gaily. “What have you been doing, you lazy beggar? It’s past half-past eleven.”
“Nothing,” I answered, surprised that it was so late. “I tried to write, but it’s too beastly hot to work.”
“Quite fresh down at the Palace,” he answered. “Big crowd on the Terrace, and the fireworks not at all bad.”
“Lil all right?”
“Yes. Sends her regards, and all that sort of thing. But—” and he hesitated, at the same time tossing his hat across upon a chair, and seating himself on the edge of the table in that careless, devil-may-care style habitual to him.
“But what?” I inquired.
He sighed, and a grave expression crossed his face.