He could see her eyes, slate-grey, hard, frightened. Her face was misty. He looked at Sydney. He wavered before George like weeds in a fast-moving river.
Then—s nap!—everything became sharp and clear. Cora and Sydney seemed to spring to life, sharp-etched, like a film that has been suddenly correctly focused.
He stared down at Crispin, caught his breath and shied away.
“No!” he said huskily. “The gun wasn’t loaded! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”
They watched him, cold, pitiless and accusing.
“It’s your mess,” Sydney said, his voice flat and metallic. “Keep away from us. We don’t want you. We don’t touch murder.”
George wasn’t listening to him. He was looking at Cora. She wouldn’t desert him: “I don’t cheat,” she had said. “I’ll be very nice to you tonight—promise.” She’d promised, hadn’t she? She couldn’t desert him now. She must know that this had nothing to do with him
He went to her.
“Cora!” he said. “I didn’t do it! You know I didn’t. The gun wasn’t loaded. I can prove it. The cartridges are at home. There’s twenty-five of them. That’s all I had. They haven’t been touched! Don’t you understand? They haven’t been touched!”
Her mouth curled in loathing.