“Oh, gently” Wyant muttered, flinching back from his outstretched arm.
“My wife’s wish is sufficient. Give me back that letter.”
Wyant straightened himself. “No, by God, I won’t!” he retorted furiously. “I didn’t ask you for it till you offered to help me; but I won’t let it be taken back without a word, like a thief that you’d caught with your umbrella. If your wife won’t explain I will. She’s afraid I’ll talk about what happened at Lynbrook.”
Amherst’s arm fell to his side. “At Lynbrook?”
Behind him there was a sound of inarticulate appeal—but he took no notice.
“Yes. It’s she who used morphia—but not on herself. She gives it to other people. She gave an overdose to Mrs. Amherst.”
Amherst looked at him confusedly. “An overdose?”
“Yes—purposely, I mean. And I came into the room at the wrong time. I can prove that Mrs. Amherst died of morphia-poisoning.”
“John!” Justine gasped out, pressing between them.
Amherst gently put aside the hand with which she had caught his arm. “Wait a moment: this can’t rest here. You can’t want it to,” he said to her in an undertone.
“Why do you care … for what he says … when I don’t?” she breathed back with trembling lips.
[ 513 ]
