The barrister thought deeply before replying. He had previously decided upon this supreme step, but he hesitated now that it was imminent. There was no help for it.
“Her name,” said he, “is one which is well known to the world. Lady Dyke, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, is missing from her home since the evening of November 6 last. She met with a violent death that night, and I—not the police—have good reason to believe that she was killed in your brother’s residence.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on a lounge, buried her white face in her hands and moaned, in a perfect agony of terror:
“Oh, my God! What shall I do? What shall I do?”
This outburst astounded Bruce. He did not know what to make of it. His intelligence had certainly taken his hearer by surprise. What interpretation was he to place upon her words and her unrestrained actions?
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she broke in vehemently, running to him and clutching him by the arm:
“He is innocent, Mr. Bruce. He must be innocent. He could not lift his finger to any woman. You must save him—do you hear?—save him, or you will have his blood on your soul. It was true, then, that you came here to hunt for him. Save him, if you hope for mercy yourself when you are dying.”
In her passion she shook him violently, and for an instant they looked intently at each other—the woman tensely piteous, entreating; the man amazed and questioning.
“Do you not see,” he said at last, “that your vehemence reveals your thoughts? For anything you know to the contrary, your brother may have committed the crime. Nay, it requires but slight knowledge of human nature to read your suspicions lest it be true. At this moment I am convinced that you are, in your heart, less sceptical than I of his guilt.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself again upon the lounge, silent, tearful, torn with violent emotion, which she vainly tried to suppress.