“I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. I somehow understood. She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. He seemed resigned but cheerful, and held frequent and serious discourses with the ordinary, who felt satisfied of his sincere penitence. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered.
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