"I don't commit murder even for love, Mrs. Anchor."
"Berry, if you please. Love!" she repeated, lighting the cigarette. "You don't know the meaning of the word. Had you really and truly loved me you would have rid me of the man who struck me."
"Did he strike you?"
"I was beaten black and blue. I told you so," she retorted. "Would any woman put up with that treatment? I hated the man!" She clenched her small fist, and her face grew angry. "I would have killed him myself had I been able."
"Perhaps, as you didn't, you got someone else to--"
"How dare you say that, Eustace!" Jarman winced as she called him by the old name. "I tell you I knew nothing of the matter. If you have come here to denounce me for the murder of my husband, you have wasted your time. There is no evidence which can connect me with that crime, or my uncle either. We are quite at our ease--quite!"
"I never thought of doing such a thing," said Jarman, drily. "My coming here is a pure accident. I live in Essex, and rarely come to town. I had not the slightest idea of your identity. It was simply and solely to write you a sketch and make money that I came."
"Why did you write under a false name?"
"Bah! You understand well enough. I am known as Leonard Grant in this line, as I'm not proud of the occupation of writing these drivelling things. You--so far as I knew--were a stranger to me. I wrote you under the name I was best known by, to do the sketch. Fan--"
"Don't call me Fan!" she said petulantly.