"Against George Heneage. Did you suppose it was against you or me?"
There was a pause. I felt in miserable indecision, knowing that I ought, in honour, to go out and show myself, but not daring to do it. Selina resumed, speaking as emphatically as her inflamed throat permitted.
"I cannot believe—I never will believe—that George Heneage was capable of committing murder. His whole nature would rise up against it: as his father said in this room a few hours ago. If the shot did come from his gun, it must have been fired inadvertently."
"The shot did come from his gun," returned Mr. Edwin Barley. "There's no 'if' in the question."
"I am aware you say so; but it was passing strange that you, also with your gun, should have been upon the spot. Now, stay!—don't put yourself in a passion. I cannot help saying it. I think all this suspense and uncertainty are killing me!"
Mr. Edwin Barley dragged a chair to the side of the bed, anger in the very sound. I felt ready to drop, lest he should see me through the slit in the curtain.
"We will have this out, Selina. It is not the first time you have given utterance to hints that you ought to be ashamed of. Do you suspect that I shot Philip King?"
His tone was so stern that, perhaps, she did not like to say "yes" outright, and tampered with the question.
"Not exactly that. But there's only your word to prove that it was George Heneage. And you know how incensed you have latterly been against him!"
"Who caused me to be incensed? Why, you."