“Your brother himself does not deny his guilt, I understand.”
“He has not denied it,” she answered—“very likely he will not do so before the magistrate—but neither has he admitted it. Mr. Ruff, you are such a clever man. Can’t you see the truth?”
Peter Ruff looked at her steadily for several moments.
“Lady Mary,” he said, “I can see what you are going to suggest. You are going on the assumption that Austen Abbott was shot by Letty Shaw and that your brother is taking the thing on his shoulders.”
“I am sure of it!” she declared. “The girl did it herself, beyond a doubt. Brian would never have shot any one. He might have horsewhipped him, perhaps—even beaten him to death—but shot him in cold blood—never!”
“The provocation—” Ruff began.
“There was no provocation,” she interrupted. “He was engaged to the girl, and of course we hated it, but she was an honest little thing, and devoted to him.”
“Doubtless,” Ruff admitted. “But all the same, as you will hear before the magistrates, or at the inquest, she was having supper alone with Austen Abbott that night at the Milan.”
Lady Mary’s eyes flashed.
“I don’t believe it!” she declared.