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often you spoke of her, how she haunted you?" He spoke lightly, but there was anxiety in his voice, and Fear … was it Fear I saw in his eyes, or indecision? "Since you have begun to get better you have never mentioned her name. You were going to write her life …" he went on.

"And death," I answered to see what he would say. We were feinting now, getting closer.

"You know she died of heart disease," he asked quickly. "There was an inquest …"

"I saw her die," I answered, not very coolly or conclusively. His face was very strange and haggard, and I felt sorry for him.

"How strange and vivid dreams can be. Morphia dreams especially," he replied, rather questioningly than assertively.

"I thought you agreed mine were not dreams?"

"Did I? When was that?"

"When you brought me their letters, told me I was foredoomed to write her story. Hers and his. I can't think why you did."

"Did I say that?"

"More than once. I suppose you thought I was not going to get better." He did not answer that except with his rising colour and confusion, and I saw now I had hit upon the truth. "I wonder you gave me the iodide," I said thoughtfully.

"I suppose now you think me capable of every crime in the calendar?"