Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Then she realized that it was her business to let Manning talk and impose his own interpretations upon the situation so far as he was concerned.
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