He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her. His smile changes into a graver gladness.
trebell. Something has happened . . in spite of me. My heart's clean again. I'm ready for fresh adventures.
frances. [With a nod and answering gladness.] That's right.
So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move. When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them carefully into walter kent's room and arranges them as carefully on his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden movement bangs the door.
Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing you kent's door still closed. At the big writing table in trebell's chair sits wedgecroft, pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter. frances comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly.
frances. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room . . and I can't see him, I really can't. He has come to say he is sorry . . and I should tell him that it is his fault, partly. I know I should . . and I don't want to. Won't you go in? What are you writing?
wedgecroft, with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend, understand, sympathise, without looking up at her.
wedgecroft. Never mind. A necessary note . . to the Coroner's office. Yes, I'll see Horsham.
frances. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong . . oughtn't I to have touched it?