“ ‘Supposing that had happened, it would be better for her to say so at once,’ I said.
“ ‘But it didn’t happen,’ he answered; ‘it couldn’t have.’
“ ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It didn’t happen; it couldn’t have. But supposing it had, Sir Edward, what then?’
“ ‘Stop, Stratton,’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop!’
“ ‘There’s no good stopping,’ I said. ‘We haven’t any time for argument. Your legal knowledge has suggested the same solution as occurred to me. If now, at once, when we send for the police, she says it was an accident—gives a complete story, chapter and verse——’
“ ‘Invents it, you mean,’ he interrupted.
“ ‘Call it what you like,’ I said, ‘but, unless she does that and substantiates the story, she will be tried for the premeditated and wilful murder of her husband. She’ll have to be tried anyway, but if she makes a voluntary confession—makes a story out of it that will appeal to sentiment—they will acquit her. It’s the only chance.’
“ ‘But it’s monstrous, man,’ he muttered—only now his eyes were fixed on me questioningly.
“ ‘Look here, Sir Edward,’ I said, ‘let’s discuss this matter calmly. Humanly speaking, we know what happened. Ruth came along that passage, opened this door, and shot her husband dead through the heart—that is the case as I should put it to the jury, the plain issue shorn of all its trappings. What is going to be the verdict?’
“Shoreham plucked at his collar as if he were fighting for breath.