Roger had uttered a startled, horrified exclamation, and she involuntarily slipped her hand through his arm, not for support—that hand did not tremble, nor did she, but its pressure was eloquent.
Her slender figure drawn to its full height, her grey eyes fixed steadily on Snell, she spoke, coldly, deliberately, in a voice that sounded in her own ears like that of a stranger:
“How utterly preposterous. You have made a great, a terrible mistake.”
“Excuse me, madam; I have to do my duty. I would have spared you if I could, but you would stay, you know,” Snell protested, watching her as closely and relentlessly as she watched him, for the moment leaving Roger Carling to Evans, who had silently entered the room and taken up his position beside him.
Having had a good deal of experience with women under such circumstances, Snell fully expected a violent hysterical outburst, but, as he afterwards confided to his wife, he had never seen such marvellous self-possession as Mrs. Carling displayed.
“I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life, nor ever felt a greater respect for anyone. She was simply splendid! And it was rough on her, poor girl—on their honeymoon and all; and of course she had nothing in the world to do with the crime. And she loves him and believes in him utterly. Mark my words, she’ll believe in him to the very end, whatever that may be.”
“Perhaps he didn’t do it,” suggested Mrs. Snell.
“That’s to be proved at the trial,” said Snell. Not even to the wife of his bosom would he commit himself to any expression of opinion on the guilt or innocence of any prisoner. That was outside his duty.
And he was right. The control Grace imposed on herself, and that helped Roger to maintain his during the ordeal, was nothing less than heroic.
She announced her intention of accompanying them back to London, but accepted Snell’s decision that that was undesirable—in fact not permissible—and arranged to settle up and follow in the course of the day.