“Light me downstairs to the kitchen,” he said. “I want to see your wife.”
Thalassa seemed about to say something at that, then thought the better of it, and walked out of the room. Outside in the passage he picked up a small lamp glimmering in a niche of the wall, and led the way downstairs. They reached the kitchen in silence, and went in.
The little grey woman at the table was seated in the same posture as Barrant had last seen her, her hands crossed in front of her, her head bent. She glanced up listlessly as they entered. Barrant crossed the room, and touched her arm. She shook in a pitiful little flurry of fear, then became motionless again.
“Mrs. Thalassa, I want to speak to you,” said Barrant, raising his voice, as though to a deaf person. “Is this where you were sitting the night before last, when you heard the crash in your master’s room upstairs?”
“Put the knave on the rubbish heap,” she muttered without looking up.
“Listen to me, Mrs. Thalassa”—he spoke still louder. “Did you hear the shot before the crash?”
The loud tone seemed to reach the remote consciousness of her being, and she started up in another flurry. … “Coming, coming, sir. Jasper, where’s the tray?…” she stood thus for a moment, then dropped back into her chair, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall.
“What’s the matter with her?” said Barrant, turning to her husband.
“She’s been like it ever since it happened,” said Thalassa, in a low tone. “That’s how I found her when I came from the cellar.”
“Did she hear the shot—or see anything?”