"So I am really married—to you," she said wonderingly.
"You will never forgive me, I know." He did not look at her now. "My own excuse is that I did what I did because I—wanted to save you. I might have sailed in with a gun and shot them up. I might have waited my chance and broken into the house. I might have taken a risk and surrounded the place with police, but that would have meant delay. I didn't do the normal things or take the normal view—I couldn't with you."
He did not see the momentary tenderness in her eyes, because he was not looking at her, and went on:
"That's the whole of the grisly story. Mr. Kitson will advise you as to what steps you may take to free yourself. It was a most horrible blunder, and it was all the more tragic because you were the victim, you of all the persons in the world!"
She had put the ring down, and now she took it up again and examined it curiously.
"It is rather—quaint, isn't it?" she asked.
"Oh, very."
He thought he heard a sob and looked up. She was laughing, at first silently, then, as the humour of the thing seized her, her laugh rang clear and he caught its infection.
"It's funny," she said at last, wiping her eyes, "there is a humorous side to it. Poor Mr. Beale!"
"I deserve a little pity," he said ruefully.