As you and your wife were seen leaving that gentleman's house a few minutes before he expired, you are naturally regarded as valuable witnesses in determining whether his death was one of suicide or murder." It was an accusation, or so nearly one, that Mr.Gryce was not at all surprised to behold the dark flush of shame displace the livid terror which but an instant before had made the man before him look like one of those lost spirits we sometimes imagine as flitting across the open mouth of hell.

But he said nothing, seemingly had no power to do so, and his father-in-law was about to make some effort to turn aside this blow when a voice in the hall outside was heard inquiring for Mr.Adams, saying that his wife had fainted again and required his help.
The young husband started, cast a look full of despair at Mr.
Poindexter, and thrusting his hand against the door as if to hold it shut, sank on his knees before Mr.Gryce, saying: "She knows! She suspects! Her nature is so sensitive." This he managed to utter in gasps as the detective bent compassionately over him.

"Don't, don't disturb her! She is an angel, a saint from heaven.

Let me bear the blame--he was my brother--let me go with you, but leave her in ignorance----" Mr.Gryce, with a vivid sense of justice, laid his hand on the young man's arm.
"Say nothing," he enjoined.

"My memory is good, and I would rather hear nothing from your lips.