“They say he killed himself.”
“Killed himself? I never heard of such ridiculous nonsense.” She was speaking as quietly and evenly as though she were discussing the labour problem, frozen to a calm more terrible than any madness. “Why should he have killed himself?”
“My God, how do I know? There was no one else to kill him—the pistol was still in his hand.”
“Where were the rest of the party?”
“There was no one else in the party. The proprietor said that they came alone, arrived at about nine and ordered supper—it was after ten when they heard the shots.”
“The proprietor probably did it himself,” said Anne Carver softly. “You let them say these things about Derry without contradiction—you, who know that he would die rather than give pain to any wretched little animal that lives?”
“I can’t believe it, Anne. I can’t believe it—but what else in God’s name can I believe?”
“You can believe what you please; and you evidently please to believe something more filthy than any nightmare that I have ever had.”
“You are being extraordinarily cruel, Anne. What explanation do you give?”
“There are a thousand. Robbery——”