"But I say, how did it happen?" his uncle asked. "We haven't the shakiest notion you know—and...."
"I just murdered him," Arthur said quietly.
"Eh! What's that?" Joe Kenyon ejaculated.
"For all intents and purposes," Arthur explained. "I opposed him, and he tried to take cover—went into one of his 'trances.' Did you know they weren't trances, by the way?"
"No. What the devil were they, then?"
"Pretences, pieces of acting, fantasies of his own making. He used to hide himself in them, as it were. Dream what a great and powerful being he was, able to keep you all in attendance, keep you waiting for ten minutes in the middle of dinner if he liked, while he enjoyed the sense of holding you there. And when he was in danger of losing his temper with me, he tried to get under that cover, to shelter himself, rehabilitate his own pride."
"And you? What did you do?"
"Treated him as if he were a case in a clinic. Began to test his reactions. And—and—well, he couldn't keep it up."
"And then?"
"Couldn't control himself. Lost his temper—frightfully. Whacked at me with his stick—and collapsed. It was losing his temper did it—first time he has done it probably for forty years. Had you ever seen him lose his temper?"