She was wearing a blouse that was cut a little low, and he notice with a kind of terror how soft and round was her throat, like a column of pale and perfect ivory.
He hoped she would not speak to him, for he thought perhaps he could not bear it if she did, but she halted near by, and said:
“This is very dreadful about poor Mr. Clive.”
“Very,” he answered moodily.
“Why should poachers kill him?” she asked. “Why should they want to?”
“I don't know,” he answered, watching not her but her soft throat, where he could see a pulse fluttering. “Perhaps it wasn't poachers,” he added.
She started violently, and gave a quick look that seemed to make yet more certain the certainty he already entertained.
“Who else could it be?” she asked in a low voice.
He did not answer.
After what seemed a long time she said: