Reuther
began to notice her pallor, and the judge to look grave. She was
forced to complain of a cold (and in this she was truthful enough)
to account for her alternations of feverish impulse and deadly
lassitude.
The trouble she had suppressed was having its quiet revenge.
Should she continue to lie inert and breathless under the
threatening hand of Fate, or risk precipitating the doom she
sought to evade, by proceeding with inquiries upon the result of
which she could no longer calculate?
She recalled the many mistakes made by those who had based their
conclusions upon circumstantial evidence (her husband's conviction
in fact) and made up her mind to brave everything by having this
matter out with Mr. Black. Then the pendulum swung back, and she
found that she could not do this because, deep down in her heart,
there burrowed a monstrous doubt (how born or how cherished she
would not question), which Mr. Black, with an avidity she could
not combat, would at once detect and pounce upon. Better silence
and a slow death than that.
But was there no medium course? Could she not learn from some
other source where Oliver had been on the night of that old-time
murder? Miss Weeks was a near neighbour and saw everything. Miss
Weeks never forgot;--to Miss Weeks she would go.
With instructions to Reuther calculated to keep that diligent
child absorbed and busy in her absence, she started out upon her
quest. She had reached the first gate, passed it and was on the
point of opening the second one, when she saw on the walk before
her a small slip of brown paper.
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