Her self-control indeed went. With a horror-stricken face and starting eyes, she cried:
“Leonard?... Leonard?... He has——”
“Yes,” declared Ralph. “He’s murdered Bridget Rousselin. I caught him in the very act of throttling her.”
Her legs seemed to fail her; she sank trembling on to a chair and stammered:
“The b-blackguard.... The b-b-blackguard.... It’s impossible!”
And on a rising inflection in which with each word the note of terror grew clearer and clearer, she cried:
“He’s committed a murder?... A murder?... It’s impossible!... He swore to me that he would never kill!... He swore it!... I can’t believe it!”
Was she sincere, or was it all comedy? Had Leonard acted in a sudden access of madness, or in accordance with instructions which bade him murder if the ruse failed. Formidable questions to which Ralph could not give the answer.
She raised her head, saw the accusation in his eyes, jerked herself to her feet and with hands outstretched towards him cried: “Why are you looking at me like that, Ralph? Oh, you can’t suspect me of a horrible crime like that! You can’t!... You can’t believe that I knew of it.... That I ordered or permitted such an abominable crime!... Tell me you don’t!”
Almost brutally he caught her by the shoulder and forced her on to the chair again. Then, crossing his arms, he took two or three paces up the room and back; then, catching her again by the shoulder and glaring into her eyes, he said slowly in the accents of an inexorable accuser and even enemy: