The poison of scandal had done its work.  Her husband, unfortunately, never suspected that she was really ill; he had a deep longing for a child of his marriage, and, misled by too eager a hope, he misinterpreted the strange alteration in his wife’s health.

But one evening, when she coughed, some blood came up.  Kallem saw it, and the hideous truth came upon him in a blinding flash.  It was the terrible disease which he had spent the greater part of his fortune in fighting against.  Tuberculosis!  But how was it that it had come so suddenly, and ravaged her dear, sweet, tender body so furiously?  She was in a galloping consumption, and the end was not far off ... a few weeks ... a few days, perhaps.

“Darling,” he said, coming to her bedside one day, “isn’t there some secret you would like to confide in me—­some secret that has been hurting and distressing you?  Tell me, dearest, for I shall have no peace until I know it.”

“I will tell you,” she said.  “I have just been thinking about it.  You will find some papers in my writing-table—­they are all for you.  Read them, dear, when——­” she broke off abruptly—­“by and by.  You will understand that it was for your sake I kept it secret.”

He went downstairs, and in the writing-table he found Karl’s letter.  Horror, indignation, and helplessness overcame him.  Why had he not known of this in time?  He would have gone to every soul in the town, and told them that they lied.

“Ay,” he said, “I will tell them so yet.  They have murdered her—­cowardly murdered her!  Ah, God, I have spent my life and my fortune in my endeavours to benefit them, and there’s not one of them—­not one—­honest enough to tell me to defend my wife’s good name!”

What drove him almost to madness was that there was none he could go to and take by the throat, exclaiming:  “You have done this!  You are answerable to me for this!” Still, there was one who stood apart from the others—­Josephine.  Josephine had not invented the slander; that was not her way.  But she would believe what was invented when it concerned anyone she disliked.  And how she disliked Ragni!  Yes, it was Josephine and her hypocrite of a husband who had laid his darling open to this sort of attack.  Very well!  Everything else was gone—­his joy of life, his interest in science, and his love of mankind.  But he still had something to live for—­vengeance!

As he was sitting one evening by the bedside of his wife the door opened, and Karl Meek came into the room.  “Is she dead?” said the boy.  Ragni heard the question.  She looked up, and tried to smile.  Her eyes rested for a moment on Karl, and then remained on her husband.  A moment after she was dead.

Josephine was surprised to hear that Karl Meek was the only person whom her brother allowed to follow the coffin of his dead wife.  Did that mean that Edward did not suspect him?  Or, more likely, that he had forgiven him?  Ah, if one could be as good as that!