She should have run at once to her husband, and here she was inside the house, and once more listening intently. It was the fancied sound that swung her consciousness back to its balance. She went to the front of the back stairs and called sharply:
"Frieda!"
There was no answer.
"Frieda," she called again. "Did you hear anything? I thought I heard some one trying to open the back door."
Again there was no answer.
Then, her lip curling at the idea of Frieda's return on Saturday night at eight o'clock, she went rapidly into the dining-room, carried the glass containing the lemonade into the kitchen, rinsed it thoroughly, and put it away.
It was not until she reached her room that it occurred to her that she should have ascertained whether or not the key was on the inside of the rear hall door.
But this was merely a flitting thought; there were loud and excited voices down by the gate. In an instant she had hung up her automobile cloak and veil, changed her dress for a wrapper, let down her hair and thrown open the window.
"What is the matter?" Her tone was peremptory but apprehensive.
"Matter enough!" John Gifning's voice was rough and broken. "Don't come out here. Mean to say you didn't hear a shot?"