She scorns my invariable rejoinder that Mr. Ferrars died of acute gastritis,

helped on by habitual over-indulgence in alcoholic beverages. The symptoms of

gastritis and arsenical poisoning are not, I agree, unlike, but Caroline bases

her accusation on quite different lines.

 

“You’ve only got to look at her,” I have heard her say.

 

Mrs. Ferrars, though not in her first youth, was a very attractive woman, and

her clothes, though simple, always seemed to fit her very well, but all the

same, lots of women buy their clothes in Paris and have not, on that account,

necessarily poisoned their husbands.

 

As I stood hesitating in the hall, with all this passing through my mind,

Caroline’s voice came again, with a sharper note in it.

 

“What on earth are you doing out there, James? Why don’t you come and get your

breakfast?”

 

“Just coming, my dear,” I said hastily. “I’ve been hanging up my overcoat.”

 

“You could have hung up half a dozen overcoats in this time.”

 

She was quite right. I could have.

 

I walked into the dining-room, gave Caroline the accustomed peck on the cheek,