“What did you do? Go in?”
“No; I was so bewildered, I scarcely knew which way to turn, and in my fear and horror I ran into my own sitting-room and fell on the couch there in sheer collapse.”
“You stayed there?”
“Until I heard voices in the den—the men came back from the fire and discovered the—the tragedy. At least, I think that’s the way it was. It’s all mixed up in my mind. Usually I’m very clear-headed and strong nerved, but that scene seemed to take away all my will-power—all my vitality.”
“I don’t wonder. What did you do or say?”
“I had a vague fear that my husband or daughter would be accused of the crime, and so, at once, I declared it was the work of the phantom bugler. You’ve heard about him?”
“Yes. You didn’t think it was he, though, did you?”
“I wanted to—yes, I think I did. You see, I don’t think the bugler was a phantom, but I do think he was a criminal. I mean, I think it was somebody who meant harm to my husband. I—well—I think maybe the shot was meant for Mr. Wheeler.”
Stone looked at her sharply, and said: “Please, Mrs. Wheeler, be honest with me, whatever you may pretend to others. Are you not springing that theory in a further attempt to direct suspicion away from Mr. Wheeler?”
She gave a gesture of helplessness. “I see I can hide nothing from you, Mr. Stone! You are right—but may there not be a chance that it is a true theory after all?”