Another Woman's House by Mignon G. Eberhart Read Free Book Online Page A

shots.” Willie gave a wriggle and he set him down carefully on the path.
    â€œAnd then, of course …” his voice was flat and weary. “Then, of course, the business of the gun came out—my gun. Alice stuck to her story, naturally. She was advised to do so even after she was convicted and sentenced. The point is that everything that we could do for her failed. There is no possible recourse. Alice is in prison for life.”
    But did he believe her guilty? Did he believe her innocent?
    He turned. “Look at me, Myra. You must understand. There is nothing more that I can do for Alice.”
    â€œYou can’t divorce her.”
    â€œWhy not?” he demanded again and repeated it almost angrily. “Why not? What’s wrong about it? Who’s to say anything against it? We have our lives ahead of us. I—want you, Myra.”
    â€œNo …”
    â€œI’ll phone our lawyer. I’ll let him tell her. I’ll ask her to get the divorce. I’ll phone Sam tonight.”
    â€œRichard …” The tears she kept from her eyes were in her voice. He stopped his headlong, defiant rush of words. “What is it? Myra, are you crying?”
    â€œNo, no. I—listen, Richard. You supported her all through the trial. You did everything for her. You would never admit her guilt. You were loyal …”
    â€œShe was my wife.”
    â€œBut don’t you see! It’s you—it’s your code—it’s Richard. You could not desert her then. You cannot now …”
    He stopped her, suddenly and sternly. “We’ve got to have things clear. I’ll say what I’ve never said to anyone, not even to Sam. It’s about—Alice.”
    Her heart tightened. Strangely, though, there was a matter-of-factness, a lack of barrier between them, so his look, his words, were all at once clear and unemotional.
    â€œActually, whether or not Alice is guilty of murder makes no difference to our situation, yours and mine. Nothing can change that; she has been convicted of murder and imprisoned and there is no further appeal. But in another way, it does make a difference between us. I do not mean as justification; there is nothing in my love for you that requires justification. I only feel that the truth, as I know it, must be known also to you.” He paused. “Yet the trouble is, of course, I never really knew the truth—about Jack, I mean, and Alice. You knew, everyone knew, that if she killed him there was only one conceivable motive. That motive had to have its roots in some sort of more or less violent affair between them. Mere friendship does not give rise to murder. Only violence breeds violence. Yet if that was true”—he paused again and took a long breath—“I never knew it. And no one else knew it. In all the tangle of evidence and investigation there was never one shred brought forward which really supported that theory, except for his presence in the house while I was away and that could equally well have been, as Alice said it was, a completely innocent and insignificant happening. They saw each other often, but we saw a lot of people. It is true that he was a sort of special—oh, escort if I happened to be away; he could always fill in as extra man at dinner parties. But bachelor friends are likely to be popular in that way. If there was ever anything serious in his certainly constant but apparently perfectly open friendship with Alice, there were no special indications of it. So, if that motive existed I did not know it. If she killed him I do not know that either.”
    The lack of barriers, the new candor between them made it possible for her to ask the questions she must ask.
    â€œWhat do you believe?”
    But she had been wrong to ask it; the moment of close and clear understanding seemed to retreat. His eyes clouded. He replied promptly, but it was with a kind of effort, as if he wished to retain that