She died on the following day, and many searching inquiries were made as to the origin of her illness. Of course, nothing was discovered, and I felt quite safe.
Then came the worst, the "unkindest cut" of all. That idiot Michelcombe developed anthrax, evidently caught from his wife. He was a bad subject, a notorious drinker, a man who had lived hard, and undermined his once fine constitution.
A nasty, indescribable feeling came over me when I was informed by a note from the nurse that another medical man had been called in, and that my services were not required.
I began to see red. Two days passed. They seemed to me like two years.
What was happening? Was Michelcombe going to pull through? What would he say? How much could he let out? Our arrangement! Discovery seemed impossible. I had covered my tracks very carefully, yet my mind misgave me.
I took an enormous quantity of morphia in that time. On the second evening the storm burst.
I heard the door-bell ring, and in a few moments, "Miss Cardew" was announced.
Miss Cardew was the nurse—the nurse. She
