Then he said gravely, "I think you know everything."
"Then if my husband has left me all he could--this property," she went
on rapidly, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers, "I can do
with it what I like, can't I?"
"You certainly can."
"Then sell it," she said, with passionate vehemence. "Sell it--all!
everything! And sell these." She darted into her bedroom, and returned
with the diamond rings she had torn from her fingers and ears when she
entered the house. "Sell them for anything they'll bring, only sell
them at once."
"But for what?" asked Poindexter, with demure lips but twinkling eyes.
"To pay the debts that this--this--woman has led him into; to return
the money she has stolen!" she went on rapidly; "to keep him from
sharing infamy! Can't you understand?"
"But, my dear madam," began Poindexter, "even if this could be done"--
"Don't tell me 'if it could'--it _must_ be done. Do you think I could
sleep under this roof, propped up by the timbers of that ruined
_tienda_? Do you think I could wear those diamonds again, while that
termagant shop-woman can say that her money bought them? No! If you are
my husband's friend you will do this--for--for his sake.
Pages:
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472