“Unreasonable, I am bound to admit. I am afraid that I should have been inclined to argue the point. What did you do, Mr Whitmarsh?”
“I hadn’t gone there to quarrel,” replied the young man, half sulky at the recollection. “It was his house. I threw it into the fireplace.”
“Very obliging,” said Carrados. “But, if I may say so, it isn’t so much a matter of speculation why he should shoot you as why he should shoot himself.”
“The gentleman seems friendly. Better ask his advice, Frank,” put in the old woman in a penetrating whisper.
“Stow it, mother!” said Whitmarsh sharply. “Are you crazy? Her idea of a coroner’s inquest,” he explained to Carrados, with easy contempt, “is that I am being tried for murder. As a matter of fact, Uncle William was a very passionate man, and, like many of that kind, he frequently went beyond himself. I don’t doubt that he was sure he’d killed me, for he was a good shot and the force of the blow sent me backwards. He was a very proud man too, in a way—wouldn’t stand correction or any kind of authority, and when he realized what he’d done and saw in a flash that he would be tried and hanged for it, suicide seemed the easiest way out of his difficulties, I suppose.”
“Yes; that sounds reasonable enough,” admitted Carrados.
“Then you don’t think there will be any trouble, sir?” insinuated Mrs Whitmarsh anxiously.
Frank had already professed his indifference to local opinion, but Carrados was conscious that both of them hung rather breathlessly on to his reply.
“Why, no,” he declared weightily. “I should see no reason for anticipating any. Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “some clever lawyer was instructed to insist that there must be more in the dispute than appears on the surface.”
“Oh, them lawyers, them lawyers!” moaned the old lady in a panic. “They can make you say anything.”