“No. The chambers are empty.”
She caught at his arm.
“Do you suppose she could have been attacked—fought wildly to protect herself—and then been overpowered?”
“No—no” he answered, not paying attention to her, but trying to recall whether his cousin had reloaded the pistol before putting it into her desk after their ride. He thought she had; therefore, the empty chambers puzzled him. Corinne was walking about, aimlessly, clasping and unclasping her hands.
“I feel as if—oh, I’ll go crazy if something....” She caught hold of the big chair, and instantly screamed, “Look! Look! Blood on the chair!”
Her mother, with Howard close after her, rushed to the chair.
“Suicide!” Mrs. Witherby hissed dramatically. “Do you know of her secret sorrow? To think she may have been preparing to take her own life in the midst of all our gayety! Oh! Mr. Howard.” She broke down, emotionally, grasping his shoulder to weep upon. “Oh! Mr. Howard, that is what comes of taking people out of their proper station. Our dear Rosamond was never quite one of us. Her mother—the butter—! She must have felt it herself—felt poignantly her inability to live up to her station among us. Oh Mr. Howard—oh—dear!”
Howard freed himself, rather ungently, and started toward the door opening on the stairs.
“I’m going up there,” he said.
“Too late!” she cried, throwing her hands up over her head. “She’s killed herself!”