For a moment she shook herself. She felt that she must be in a nightmare. Then she became conscious of the reality of those footsteps below, the renewed murmuring of awe-stricken voices. She sprang out of bed. Before she could reach the window, she heard the same hoarse, shocked voice, with its quaint Norfolk inflexion.
“Shot right through the head, that’s what happened to him. Writing there at the table with his papers lying all over the place. There’s a revolver on the floor. Police Sergeant Cloutson won’t have it touched.”
She leaned, screaming, out of the window. Amongst the little crowd below were the village policeman, both the gardeners, and Mr. Wilkinson, the clergyman.
“Tell me what has happened?” she cried out frantically.
They seemed all stricken dumb.
“Tell me, tell me what it is?” she insisted.
Mr. Wilkinson turned towards the front entrance.
“If you will put on a dressing gown and come to your door,” he said, “I will speak to you.”
She met him halfway down the stairs. Her knees were trembling, and she clung to the banisters for support.
“Tell me what it is?” she demanded. “Is it Uncle?”