Burke glared at the speaker in a rage that was abruptly grown suspicious in some vague way.
“What's the reason we can't?” he stormed.
Mary sprang to her feet. She was radiant with a new serenity, now that her quick-wittedness had discovered a method for baffling the mesh of evidence that had been woven about her and Dick through no fault of their own. Her eyes were glowing with even more than their usual lusters. Her voice came softly modulated, almost mocking.
“Because you couldn't convict him,” she said succinctly. A contented smile bent the red graces of her lips.
Burke sneered an indignation that was, nevertheless, somewhat fearful of what might lie behind the woman's assurance.
“What's the reason?” he demanded, scornfully. “There's the body.” He pointed to the rigid form of the dead man, lying there so very near them. “And the gun was found on him. And then, you're willing to swear that he killed him.... Well, I guess we'll convict him, all right. Why not?”
Mary's answer was given quietly, but, none the less, with an assurance that could not be gainsaid.
“Because,” she said, “my husband merely killed a burglar.” In her turn, she pointed toward the body of the dead man. “That man,” she continued evenly, “was the burglar. You know that! My husband shot him in defense of his home!” There was a brief silence. Then, she added, with a wonderful mildness in the music of her voice. “And so, Inspector, as you know of course, he was within the law!”