“It was unexpected; she didn’t know he had guessed—and her face gave her away for a moment. Then she straightened up proudly.
“ ‘Sir Edward Shoreham and I are on terms which an animal of your gross mind couldn’t possibly understand,’ she answered coldly, and he laughed. ‘If you insinuate that he is my lover in the accepted sense of the word, you lie and you know it.’
“Without another word she walked contemptuously by him, and the door closed behind her. And after a moment or two I followed her, leaving him staring moodily at the empty grate. I couldn’t have spoken to him without being rude and, after all, I was under his roof.”
The Barrister leant back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“Now that was the situation,” he continued, “when I went to bed. My room was almost opposite Lady Granger’s, and at the end of the passage, which was a cul-de-sac, was the door leading into Granger’s study. I hadn’t started to undress when I heard him come past my room and go along the passage to his study. And I was still thinking over the situation about ten minutes later when Lady Granger’s door opened. I knew it was hers because I heard her speak to her maid, telling her to go to bed. The girl said ‘Good night,’ and something—I don’t quite know what—made me look through the keyhole of my door. I was feeling uneasy and alarmed; I suppose the scene downstairs had unsettled me. And sure enough, as soon as the maid’s footsteps had died away, I saw through my spy-hole Ruth Granger go down the passage towards her husband’s study. For a moment I hesitated; an outsider’s position is always awkward between husband and wife. But one thing was very certain, those two were in no condition to have another—and this time a private—interview. I opened my door noiselessly and peered out. It struck me that if I heard things getting too heated I should have to intervene. She was just opening the door of his study as I looked along the passage, and then in a flash the whole thing seemed to happen. The door shut behind her; there was a pause of one—perhaps two seconds—and a revolver shot rang out, followed by the sound of a heavy fall. For a moment I was stunned; then I raced along the passage as hard as I could, and flung open the door of the study.
“On the floor lay Henry Granger, doubled up and sprawling, while in the middle of the room stood his wife staring at him speechlessly. At her feet on the carpet was a revolver, an automatic Colt. I stood there by the door staring foolishly, and after a while she spoke.
“ ‘There’s been an accident,’ she whispered. ‘Is he dead?’
“I went up to the body and turned it over. Through the shirt front was a small hole; underneath the left shoulder blade was another. Henry Granger had been shot through the heart from point-blank range; death must have been absolutely instantaneous.
“ ‘My God, Ruth!’ I muttered. ‘How did it happen?’
“ ‘Happen?’ she answered vaguely. ‘There was a man . . . the window.’