"Oh, I can only thank heaven I was here! But for me I believe she'd have killed the child."
"What state is she in now?"
"I really don't know. She won't speak to me. She sits quite still, just staring at me. I try to stay with her, but it's too dreadful. I can't help hating her—and I think she knows it."
Grantley had some experience of coming to know what people felt about him.
"I expect she does," he nodded.
"What will happen, Mr. Imason?"
"I don't know—except that the children mustn't stay with her. Is she afraid of being prosecuted, do you think?"
"She hasn't said anything about it. No, she doesn't seem afraid; I don't think that's her feeling. But—but her eyes look awful. When I had to tell her that the doctor had forbidden her to come near the children, and said he would send the police into the house if she tried to go to them—well, I've never seen such an expression on any human face before. She looked like—like somebody in hell, Mr. Imason."
"Ah!" groaned Grantley with a jerk of his head, as though he turned from a fearful spectacle.
"I've just been with her. I persuaded her to go to bed—she's not slept since it happened, I know—and got her to let me help her to undress. Her maid won't go to her; she's too frightened. I hope she'll go to sleep, or really I think she'll lose her senses." She paused and then asked: "Will this make any difference in—in the proceedings?"