"Who," asked Sharpless, "who are you going to order her to kill?"
Rich looked surprised.
"Her husband, of course. Who else?"
Frank Sharpless craned his neck round. But if he expected any support from Fane, he did not get it.
From whatever cause, Arthur appeared to have changed his mind. He sat very still in an easy chair, his middle-sized, thick-set figure balanced on die edge of it, staring down at his well-polished shoes. The dead cigar was between his fingers. He moved his heels outwards, a queer gesture, and brought them together again with a click. He glanced up, his dark face impassive.
"I don't hold with this. Still… it won't hurt my wife in any way?"
"Oh, no. She may feel tired afterwards. But, if Mrs. Fane is the healthy, uncomplex person I am sure she is, it won't affect her at all."
"Will she know what's happening at the time?" "No."
"Or remember it afterwards?" "No."
'Is that so, now?" mused Arthur. He scratched the side of his nose with a fingernail of the game hand that held his cigar. He studied Rich. Again the rare.smile gleamed. "Suppose (just suppose, now!) that my wife did have it in her inmost mind to — hurt me?"