“I did.”
The barrister paused in his examination, hesitated a while; and then, as if satisfied, suddenly dropped back in his seat, and pulling out a snuff-box, tapped it thoughtfully before helping himself to a substantial pinch. A murmur of excitement had run round the spectators when Mrs. Tretheroe gave her last decided answer; it had scarcely died away before Harborough’s solicitor, Mr. Walkinshaw, rose at the table. He looked fixedly at the witness.
“I want to ask you a very pointed question,” he said. “And I want a very definite answer. Do you honestly believe that Mr. John Harborough killed Guy Markenmore? Think!”
“I have thought!” retorted Mrs. Tretheroe defiantly. “I do!”
“You believe that Mr. Harborough nursed his desire for revenge—if he ever really had any—for seven years, and took the first opportunity of gratifying it?”
“I think he shot Guy Markenmore,” said Mrs. Tretheroe, with some show of sullenness.
“You think that Mr. Harborough returned home still in love with you? Answer!”
“I think it’s possible. He used to swear that he could never love anybody else. And he certainly hadn’t married.”
“I will put this to you. Mr. Harborough met you on Monday afternoon. Let us suppose that all his old passion was revived at the mere sight of you—let us suppose, still further, that he made up his mind to once more become a suitor for your hand. Do you think it very likely that he would begin matters by shooting a man?”
“I’m not going to suppose anything. I believe he did shoot Guy. They met—accidentally—and Harborough shot him.”