“It is all nonsense,” said Sylvia.  “Whatever Hannah Simmons is keeping to herself, it isn’t killing another woman, or knowing that Lucinda Hart did it.  There was no reason for either of those women to kill Miss Farrel, and folks don’t do such awful things without reason, unless they’re crazy, and it isn’t likely that Lucinda and Hannah have both come down crazy together, and I know it ain’t in the Hart family, or the Simmons.  What if poor Lucinda did give Miss Farrel some essence of peppermint?  I gave some to Henry night before last, when he had gas in his stomach, and it didn’t kill him.”

“What they claim is that arsenic was in the peppermint,” said Horace, in an odd, almost indifferent voice.

“Arsenic in the peppermint!” repeated Sylvia.  “You needn’t tell me Lucinda Hart put arsenic in the peppermint, though I dare say she had some in the house to kill rats.  It’s likely that old tavern was overrun with them, and I know she lost her cat a few weeks ago.  She told me herself.  He was shot when he was out hunting.  Lucinda thought somebody mistook him for a skunk.  She felt real bad about it.  I feel kind of guilty myself.  I can’t help thinking if I’d just looked round then and hunted up a kitten for poor Lucinda, she never would have had any need to keep rat poison, and nobody would have suspected her of such an awful thing.  I suppose Albion Bennet right up and told she’d bought it, first thing.  I think he might have kept still, as long as he’d boarded with Lucinda, and as many favors as she’d showed him.  He knew as well as anybody that she never gave it to Miss Farrel.”

“Now, Sylvia, he had to tell if he was asked,” Henry said, soothingly, for Sylvia was beginning to show signs of hysterical excitement.  “He couldn’t do anything else.”

“He could have forgot,” Sylvia returned, shrilly.  “Men ain’t so awful conscientious about forgetting.  He could have forgot.”

“He had to tell,” repeated Henry.  “Don’t get all wrought up over it, Sylvia.”

“I can’t help it.  I begin to feel guilty myself.  I know I might have found a kitten.  I had a lot on my mind, with moving and everything, but I might have done it.  Albion Bennet never had the spunk to do anything but tell all he knew.  I suppose he was afraid of his own precious neck.”

“Ain’t it most time to see about dinner?” asked Henry.

Then Sylvia went out of the room with a little hysterical twitter like a scared bird, and the two men were left alone.  Silence came over them again.  Both men looked moodily at nothing.  Finally Henry spoke.

“One of the worst features of any terrible thing like this is that burdens innumerable are either heaped upon the shoulders of the innocent, or they assume them.  There’s my poor wife actually trying to make out that she is in some way to blame.”

“Women are a queer lot,” said Horace, in a miserable tone.

Then the door opened suddenly, and Sylvia’s think, excited face appeared.