“My wife!” There was amazement in Dick Bracknell’s tones, and for a moment after the exclamation he stared at the officer like the man who could not believe his ears.
“Yes, your wife, Joy Gargrave,” answered the corporal steadily. “You went to meet her in the wood, didn’t you?”
Dick Bracknell did not reply. His lips pursed themselves and he began to whistle thoughtfully to himself the while he stared at the man whose question he left unanswered. The corporal smiled a little, and continued—
“I should think that you would be the first to admit that Joy Gargrave was not without grievances sufficient to warrant extreme action on her part.”
“You can put that notion out of your noddle, at once,” replied the other harshly. “If you know Joy at all, you know that the idea of shooting me is the very last thing that would enter her head. She’s not that sort.”
The corporal remembered Joy’s confession and smiled whimsically at the unconscious irony of her husband’s testimony, then, still trying to move the other to some indiscretion of speech, he answered quietly, “You believe in Joy Gargrave? But have you thought what she must feel like? There are plenty of women who—”
“Drop it,” broke in the sick man harshly. “The motion is preposterous. I won’t listen to it; and I warn you, I don’t share Joy’s scruples about shooting.”
“Nor about anything else, I imagine?” answered the corporal with a short laugh. “But we can easily settle whether Joy did it or not. Which side did the shot come from?”
“Now you’re asking me something,” answered the wounded man. “There were two shots, and they came from both sides of me. It was a regular ambuscade, and whoever fired meant to get me.”
“Where were you hit?” asked the corporal.