“How?”
“He shot him, I said; he shot him down in cold blood.”
I began at this time to feel it; and what I felt was not that Jerry had shot Win Scofield; no, not Jerry who’d grown up beside me as my brother in this house. That duplicate of Jerry, whom I myself had mistaken for Jerry when I found him in that basement room, that man and his Christina, who then was with him, had “got” Win Scofield; and my rage rose against her. She was his wife and, if she had not fired the shot, she’d been in the plot. I thought how I had seen her last night singing and exultant. I clenched my hands and shook.
My father was going on. “He was seen and recognized by three persons. There’s no doubt about it at all.”
“Who saw him?” I said.
“Mrs. Scofield.”
I laughed at that and it must have seemed mad to father. “Who else?” I asked him.
“The chauffeur.”
I laughed again.
“And the butler,” father finished.