"I've a right to know."
"Because you are not Harriet Walter," was the answer I sent bullet-like at her.
She raised her eyes to mine. There was neither anger nor resentment on her face. All I could see was utter weariness, utter tragedy.
"I know," she said. She spoke very quietly. Something in her voice sent a stab of pity through me.
"I'm only trying to help you," I told her. "I only want to clear up this maddening muddle."
"You can't," she said very simply. "It's too late."
"It's not too late!" I blindly persisted.
"What do you know about it?" was her listless and weary retort.
"I know more about it than you imagine," was my answer. "I know where this revolver came from, just when and where you picked it up, and just how near you came to using it."
She covered her face with her hands. Then she dropped them to her side, with a gesture of hopelessness.