"How did it happen?" he asked.
"The shooting?"
"Yes."
"It was quite unpremeditated; had the revolver not been there it would never have happened. I believe my husband intended to shoot him, and me—it was his revolver."
Hector wondered if this were true.
"The revolver was on a small table. I saw it but did not remove it; had I done so the tragedy would not have happened."
"Why did you leave it there?" he asked.
"I do not know; probably because I did not wish my husband to know I was afraid. I was aware he had found us out, that an exposure must come sooner or later. He was madly in love with me; I almost hated him, he was so weak, almost childish, and I wanted a strong man to rule me. Shall I go on, do you despise me, look upon me as a very wicked woman?" she asked in a strained voice.
"Go on," he said; "tell me the whole story, how he was shot, everything."
"I will, I will make a full confession; but be merciful in your judgment, remember I am doing this because I love you, that I do not want it to stand between us, I plead to you not to throw all the blame on me. Hector Woodridge was a strong man and I loved him, I believe he loved me, he overcame all my scruples. I yielded to him, gave myself to him—surely that was a great sacrifice, my name, honor, everything for his sake. We were together in my husband's study. We thought he was in London, but he did not go; he set a trap and caught us. I shall never forget the look on his face when he came into the room. I saw his eyes rest on the revolver, and I felt it was our lives or his, but we stood between him and the weapon.