David Courtlaw crossed the floor of the dingy little sitting-room with outstretched hands.
“You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord.”
“It is very nice of you,” Anna said softly.
“Rubbish!” he answered. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. Tell me exactly what has happened. Even now I do not understand. Is this man Hill dead?”
She shook her head.
“He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery.”
“What is there to be feared?” he asked her quietly.
She hesitated.
“You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. I think that I will tell you. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. He shot at me at the ‘Unusual,’ and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. Last night Mr. Brendon and I returned from the ‘Unusual,’ and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. We fetched the doctor and the police. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. I am suspected of having shot the man.”
“But that is ridiculous!” he exclaimed.