"You say there was a light moving about; but what else did you see?"
"Nothing."
"But you heard something?"
"Yes; the revolver shot, and then the dreadful cry that followed it."
Ashton-Kirk unclasped his hands from about his knee, placed them upon the arms of his chair and leaned forward.
"But between the two—after the shot, and before the cry, you heard a door close," he said.
She gave a little gasp of surprise.
"I did," she said. "I remember it distinctly now that you mention it. It closed sharply, but not very loudly."
The investigator leaned back and began drumming upon the arm of his chair with his long supple fingers.
"Experience never quite takes away that comfortable feeling of satisfaction that the proving of a theory gives one," said he. "I suppose it is a sort of reward that Nature reserves for effort."