A sound disturbed her, and she looked round. There stood Wilbraham, haggard, breathless, drenched to the skin, changed almost out of recognition. At the door Nina had tried to stop him, but he pushed her aside. The two eyed each other.
“Too—late?”
Teresa only just caught the whisper.
“It was momentary.” Her quiet amazed herself.
His eyes persistently held away from Sylvia. He raised his hand to his wet hair, fingering it impatiently.
“I did not catch him.”
“Him? Who?”
“The fellow who shot her—who shot at me.”
“Who?” Teresa frowned, trying to remember. In the rush of the tragedy, she had forgotten that some one was responsible for it. “Oh,” she cried desperately, “what of that!”
She turned away again. Against his will, Wilbraham’s blood-shot eyes followed hers to where Sylvia lay, serenely lifted above his level.