"Yet for all that I am not sorry I sprained it," said Wilfred, turning his thin white face toward the girl.
"Not sorry! What do you mean?"
"Oh, it's an ill wind--you know."
"Yes, I suppose it is. But it's difficult to see what sort of 'good' one can look for from a sprained ankle!"
"Well, in this instance I fancy it did me a good turn. You see it rendered me physically helpless for the time being."
"My dear Wilfred--I confess you puzzle me."
"Do I? Well, I'll tell you what I mean. The night, almost the hour, I sprained my ankle, poor Malet was shot. So no one can possibly accuse me of having shot him!"
"But who would dare to accuse you of such a thing?"
"Oh, I don't know; that fool of an inspector was quite prepared to fix his beastly suspicions on Harold--told me as much."
"I know; but then you see Harold and Mr. Malet quarrelled. That was the reason Mr. Woke was suspicious. But of course Harold laughed at the idea."