“I’m sure she won’t make a fuss, Mr. Superbus. Women are very brave in such moments of trial. And a toe more or less isn’t essential to married happiness.”
Mr. Superbus wasn’t so sure, being at that moment in his most sentimental mood. His eyes were moist.
“It’s a dreadful thing to think, ma’am,” he said, his lip a-tremble, “that only yesterday that little toe of mine was alive and well; to-day—where is it?”
Mr. Dempsi covered his eyes with his long, thin hand.
“And I did it,” he said, his bosom heaving.
“Don’t take on so, sir”—Julius had the air of a Christian martyr excusing the lions. “Why, it might have happened to any gentleman. I wish you’d shot him—or her.”
Diana’s eyes narrowed.
“Or her?” she repeated. “What makes you say that? Was the other person a woman?”
“It might have been.” Julius was not prepared to be more explicit. In truth, he wasn’t particularly sure himself, but being gifted by nature with the mystery novelist’s successful trick of passing on suspicion to the most unlikely quarters, he suggested a woman accomplice, if only to be the only person in the room who knew the truth. Which was that the second person was a man and used expressions that no lady could possibly employ.
“Whether it is one or the other I am unable to make a statement at present,” he said sombrely. “That will come out at the trial.”