Legard winced, he tried to answer steadily and without emotion, but there was fear in his heart, fear of her reading that which lay between him and his conscience.
“On Tuesday afternoon.”
“What did she die of, it was very sudden? Mr. Nielsen told me that—that—she took an overdose of morphia.” She spoke with hesitation, but hurriedly, as if afraid to give him time to deceive her. “Was it true?” she said, without looking at him.
“Yes,” muttered Giles. He also looked away. The mind of each of them was fixed solely upon its own grim terror, neither saw the spectre imaged in the thoughts of the other.
“She knew—everything?” Jocelyn said. It sounded like the expression of a conviction rather than a question.
“I don’t know—perhaps—I think so,” and he looked at her swiftly with a catch in his breath, for the spectre of her thoughts had peeped out at him, and he was very frightened.
“Look at me, darling!” he said pleadingly.
She looked at him, and across his mind fell the shadow of what lay before him.
“Good God! what are you thinking?”
“I am thinking,” said Jocelyn simply, “that I killed her—that’s all.”