The bolt, loosed serenely from that official blue, caught us fairly in the wind, and sent us staggering. The whispered cry came from us together. The inspector nodded his head, with his lips set very grim.
“Dead, gentlemen. Look in a well, they say, for truth. It’s worth bearing in mind.”
“In a well!”
“In a well, sir. Mrs Dalston done him. I’ve got her under arrest at this moment.”
“Murder?”
The detective with a swift movement gripped my arm.
“Hold on, sir,” he said. “It’ll pass in a bit.”
“I’m all right,” I whispered huskily. “Did she murder him!”
“I didn’t say she did, now did I?” he protested. “She drove him to kill himself, if you want the truth. We got him up at daybreak, and he’s lying in the parlour now. His ticket’s cancelled for good and all. I want you over there at once, Mr Shapter; but the young gentleman needn’t come unless he likes.”
“I’m ready,” I retorted fiercely. “What do you suppose? Have I run him so far to shirk the end? Come, hurry; what are you waiting for?”