“Who shot Griggs?” he shouted.
Mary rested serene in the presence of this violence. Her answer capped the climax of the officer's exasperation.
“My husband shot a burglar,” she said, languidly. And then her insolence reached its culmination in a query of her own: “Was his name Griggs?” It was done with splendid art, with a splendid mastery of her own emotions, for, even as she spoke the words, she was remembering those shuddering seconds when she had stood, only a few hours ago, gazing down at the inert bulk that had been a man.
Burke betook himself to another form of attack.
“Oh, you know better than that,” he declared, truculently. “You see, we've traced the Maxim silencer. Garson himself bought it up in Hartford.”
For the first time, Mary was caught off her guard.
“But he told me——” she began, then became aware of her indiscretion, and checked herself.
Burke seized on her lapse with avidity.
“What did he tell you?” he questioned, eagerly.
Now, Mary had regained her self-command, and she spoke calmly.