Her pretty, pink-and-white face wore a most peevish, disagreeable expression, and there was no trace of sympathy in her hard, blue eyes.
“So you’ve got here, Grace. I had your wire, but I simply couldn’t come to meet you. I was too terribly upset, and your father’s away. What an awful disgrace for us all. Roger must have been mad—raving mad!”
Grace threw up her hand, as if to ward off a blow.
“Mother!” she cried, “what do you mean? You don’t—you can’t think that my Roger is a——”
She could not bring herself to utter the word. But Mrs. Armitage could.
“A murderer! Of course he is. There’s not a shadow of doubt about it. He knew poor Lady Rawson had those wretched papers, and followed and stabbed her as he couldn’t get them any other way; and then had the nerve to come on and be married to you—to my daughter! No wonder he was so late, and looked so disreputable. I never liked him, I never trusted him—you know I didn’t; but I never dreamed that he was capable of such a horrible thing. As I say, he must have been mad, but that doesn’t make it any better for us; and what on earth we are to do I don’t know! If only——”
“Stop!” cried Grace, so imperatively that Mrs. Armitage recoiled. “If you or anyone else say my husband committed this murder you lie!”
The elder woman’s blue eyes flashed, her voice rang out shrilly.
“How dare you speak to me like that! I say he did do it; and he’ll hang for it—and serve him right for disgracing you and your family. Where are you going?”
“Out of this house,” said Grace, and stumbled into the hall, where the maid lingered by the open outer door, stumbled blindly forward and almost fell into the arms of Winnie Winston, who arrived, breathless, on the doorstep.