“I can't believe it of him, Frieda,—I can't believe it.”
Her face was ghastly. “We have the proof, Davenport,—the indisputable proof,” she murmured.
“The proof? What proof have we?”
“The best proof in the world. He shot himself. Only a guilty man would have taken his own life in the circumstances. We—we must believe it of him, Davenport. That poor, sick girl! How are we to tell her?”
Of the two, she was now by far the more composed. Except for the colourless lips and an almost lavender-like hue that stole slowly into her cheeks just below the temples, indicative of the vast effort she had been called upon to exert in order to regain command of her nerves, she was visibly calm and self-contained. Her husband had sunk dejectedly into a chair. For many minutes no word passed between them. It was she who spoke first.
“You say they caught one of the men—one of the others, I mean?” she inquired.
“The taxi-driver.”
Her lips parted to form another question. She withheld it. With her handkerchief she wiped away the moisture that suddenly appeared at the corners of her mouth—oozing from between close-pressed lips.
She read the accounts in the other papers, her face absolutely emotionless. After a while he looked up, and, unobserved, watched her face.
“You are a very wonderful woman, Frieda,” he said as she laid the last of the papers on the table. Her answer was a faint smile and a shake of the head.