The next morning Ashcroft said to his host:  “Paul, let us take a walk to the village.”

Dr. Crawford put on his hat, and went out with his friend.

“Now, Paul,” said Ashcroft, when they were some rods distant from the house, “is there a lawyer in Edgewood?”

“Certainly, and a good one.”

“Did he indite your will?”

“No; Mrs. Crawford wrote it out.  She was at one time copyist for a lawyer.”

“Take my advice and have another drawn up to-day without mentioning the matter to her.  She admits having mislaid the one made yesterday.”

“It may be a good idea.”

“Certainly, it is a prudent precaution.  Then you will be sure that all is safe.  I have, myself, executed a duplicate will.  One I keep, the other I have deposited with my lawyer.”

Ashcroft was a man of energy.  He saw that Dr. Crawford, who was of a weak, vacillating temper, executed the will.  He and another witnessed it, and the document was left with the lawyer.

“You think I had better not mention the matter to Mrs. Crawford?” he said.

“By no means—­she might think it was a reflection upon her for carelessly mislaying the first.”

“True,” and the doctor, who was fond of peace, consented to his friend’s plan.

“By the way,” asked Ashcroft, “who was your wife what was her name, I mean—­before her second marriage?”

“She was a Mrs. Cook.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ashcroft, and his face lighted up with surprise and intelligence.

“What do you see?” inquired Dr. Crawford.  “I thought your wife’s face was familiar.  I met her once when she was Mrs. Cook.”

“You knew her, then?”

“No, I never exchanged a word with her till I met her under this roof.

“How can I tell him that I first saw her when a visitor to the penitentiary among the female prisoners?” Ashcroft asked himself.  “My poor friend would sink with mortification.”

They were sitting in friendly chat after their return from their walk, when Mrs. Crawford burst into the room in evident excitement.

“Husband,” she cried, “Peter has brought home a terrible report.  He has heard from a person who has just come from Milford that Carl has been run over on the railroad and instantly killed!”

Dr. Crawford turned pale, his features worked convulsively, and he put his hand to his heart, as he sank back in his chair, his face as pale as the dead.

“Woman!” said Ashcroft, sternly, “I believe you have killed your husband!”

“Oh, don’t say that!  How could I be so imprudent?” said Mrs. Crawford, clasping her hands, and counterfeiting distress.

Ashcroft set himself at once to save his friend from the result of the shock.

“Leave the room!” he said, sternly, to Mrs. Crawford.

“Why should I?  I am his wife.”

“And have sought to be his murderer.  You know that he has heart disease.  Mrs.—­Cook, I know more about you than you suppose.”