Her head swam, her knees gave way, and she tottered back against the wall, half fainting, when the captain’s voice rang out, with a note of agony and despair that she never forgot.
“My God! My God!” he wailed. “Oh, Muriel!”
She opened her eyes. For a moment she was too giddy to see. Then, as her vision cleared, she saw him on his knees beside the chest.
Not a chest—it was a coffin; and on it was a strange little plate glittering like gold, with an inscription:
MURIEL QUELTON
BELOVED WIFE OF PAUL QUELTON
XXIII
When she looked back upon the experiences of that dreadful night, it seemed to Lexy that both she and her companion displayed almost incredible endurance. Since morning they had lived through a very lifetime of emotion, to end now in this tragedy more horrible than anything they could have feared.
Yet, not five minutes after his cry of agony, Captain Grey had recovered his self-control. He was able to speak quietly to Lexy, and she was able to answer him no less quietly.
“We’d better go,” he said. “We can do nothing here. It’s a case for the police now.”