What has been done can never be
discovered. Not a soul knows except the doctor, and between him and
ourselves we are going to put a few thousand--What's the matter, Iris?
What the devil is the matter?"
For Iris, who had been steadily reading while her husband chattered on,
suddenly dropped the book, and turned upon hum a white face and eyes
struck with horror.
"What is it?" Lord Harry repeated.
"Oh! Is this true?"
"What?"
"I cannot say it. Oh, my God! can this be true?"
"What? Speak, Iris." He sprang to his feet. "Is it--is it discovered?"
"Discovered? Yes, all--all--all--is discovered!"
"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.
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