She swayed as the words were wrung from her very soul.
Shattuck sprang to her and caught her.
"You're wonderful," he whispered. "Honora—why—why have you said this?"
For answer she merely allowed herself to rest more closely in his arms.
Doyle moved forward with a triumphant smile. It made no difference to him. It was a confession, either way. And confessions meant convictions and success to him. What was human emotion, compared to a good record and report in the files at Headquarters?
Honora looked from Doyle to Kennedy fearfully. She shrank farther into Shattuck's arms, nor did Shattuck relax his embrace.
"It's true," she cried. "It's true. I tell you—it was a duel—just as he said—really—and I saved him!"
Not one of us moved as we realized the situation. She would sacrifice her reputation, everything. But she would save her lover.
"It was not murder—it—"
Doyle raged, as he realized that, after all, a clever lawyer, with this woman as a witness, the heart-throbbing hypothetical question, and the impressionable jury might quickly overturn all that Doyle might swear to.