Edith shuddered. “How dreadful! It was the fear of the other kind of death, wasn’t it? What did Martin say or do then?”
“Nothing, but stare and stare and look satisfied in a grim sort of way.”
“He must have been something more than satisfied; so is Perkins. This is probably the first evening for two years when they have known peace. You remember, Jack, I told you I didn’t think Martin was really guilty.”
“Martin,” said Derrick slowly, “is now in jail, charged with complicity in Millicent’s murder.”
At the door came a sudden and violent crash. It had opened without sound, and there stood Perkins with the ruins of coffee-cups at her feet. Her hands were gripped together, her lips parted, and the suffering of the damned was written on her colorless cheeks. Her eyes, now large and staring, seemed to be fixed immovably on space. Then, imperceptibly, she regained a sort of shuddering consciousness.
“I’m extremely sorry, madam, but I tripped over the door-mat.”
The voice was lifeless, devoid of inflection, so flat as to be almost unhuman. She stooped, gathered up the shattered china, and disappeared. Edith, too shaken for a moment to speak, regarded her brother with frightened astonishment.
“What do you mean?” she stammered presently.
“Exactly that. Neither you nor Perkins could see what happened after Blunt was taken to the cottage.”
He went on with a sort of labored carefulness and told her all, shooting meanwhile quick glances at the door, where shortly Perkins would reappear. Neither of them doubted that she would be master enough of herself for this. In the middle of it she came in, looking straight ahead. The tremor had left her body, her hands were again steady, her face impassive as ever. She put the tray beside her mistress and went out. At the click of the latch Edith gave a gasp.