“And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in consequence—but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!”
This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she assented.
“Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?”
“I—I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous now with a baffled despair.
“Then you went down because of the quarreling voices—not because of the fire-alarm?”
Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she nervously responded: “Well, it was both.”
“Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can, don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?”
“Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully.
“Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best help them by telling the truth?”
“Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in her hands.