“NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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