“Wilton!” Mrs. Mearely was astounded at the sight of him. She hesitated an instant on the threshold, staring at him; then, closing the door, came swiftly toward him.
“What is it? Why are you here?”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze dwelt on her, noting the fact that she still wore her rose-and-silver gown. Before he spoke she had discerned the change in him. In manner he was a replica of Hibbert Mearely.
“Sit down, please.” He waited for her to do so. “I have something to say; and it must be said quickly before Mrs. Witherby returns.”
“Mrs. Witherby?—returns?” she repeated mechanically.
“Please hear me out. It appears that a man has been shot and brought in here. You sent for the doctor, but omitted to say why. Mrs. Wells supposed that you were seriously ill. Knowing that you were alone, she telephoned Mrs. Witherby, asking her to come to you. Mrs. Witherby, in her turn, called me up, and I came as quickly as I could. I may add, she has also wired for your sister.”
She gasped.
“Wilton! What an absurd—what an impertinent thing to do!”
He motioned for silence.
“While we were waiting we found your pistol, then, blood-stains on that chair—which are now explained of course; then—those dishes—plates for two—which are not yet explained. Wait, if you please. Dr. Wells informed us that a Mr. Mills had been shot, accidentally, by a constable, as he was riding along the road....”