"You'll want a doctor — coroners — your men from the village. I'll take you in my car…"
Feeling that the universe had suddenly sprung a high fever, Teal found himself hustled helplessly around the broad terrace to the front of the house. They had reached the drive before he managed to collect his wits and stop.
"Have you gone mad?" he demanded, planting his feet solidly in the gravel and refusing to move further. "What do you mean — it was your fault?"
"I killed him," said the Saint savagely. "I killed Maurice Vould!"
"You?" Teal ejaculated, with an uncanny start. "You're crazy," he said.
"I killed him," said the Saint, "by culpable negligence. Because I could have saved his life. I was mad. I was crazy. But I'm not now. All right. Go back to the house. You have somebody to arrest."
A flash of memory went across Teal's mind — the memory of a pale ghostly woman rising from her chair, her voice saying: "My God, he's killed him!" — the hint of a frightful foreknowledge. A cold shiver touched his spine.
"You don't mean — Lady Yearleigh?" he said incredulously. "It's impossible. With a husband like hers—"
"You think he was a good husband, don't you?" said the Saint. "Because he was a noble sportsman. Cold baths and cricket. Hunting, shooting, and fishing. I suppose it's too much to expect you to put yourself in the place of a woman— a woman like her — who was married to that?"
"You think she was in love with Vould?"