“Impossible!” I exclaimed.
“What is impossible?” he asked, coolly
“That Dexter poisoned my husband’s first wife.”
“And why is that impossible, if you please?” I began to be almost enraged with Mr. Playmore.
“Can you ask the question?” I replied, indignantly. “I have told you that I heard him speak of her in terms of respect and affection of which any woman might be proud. He lives in the memory of her. I owe his friendly reception of me to some resemblance which he fancies he sees between my figure and hers. I have seen tears in his eyes, I have heard his voice falter and fail him, when he spoke of her. He may be the falsest of men in all besides, but he is true to her— he has not misled me in that one thing. There are signs that never deceive a woman when a man is talking to her of wh
