"I did not!"
"You did. It's manslaughter, if not murder. It might mean hanging, and it'll pretty certainly mean prison."
"Prison!"
Every trace of color went out of Gardiner's face. In the momentary pause some one tapped at the door.
Gardiner wrenched himself free, and Denis sprang to shut out the intruder; but he was too late. The door, left unlatched by Miss Marvin, slid open at a touch. There stood Mrs. Trent, in her long muffling cloak and veil; she had come in quest of her husband.
Denis tried ineffectually to block out the view of the room, the lamp on the floor, the dead man, and Gardiner.
"You—you mustn't come in, Mrs. Trent. Your husband's had a sort of seizure—"
She said nothing, only plucked at his arm, struggling against it, her eyes, her whole being concentrated on the figure on the floor. Suddenly diving under the barrier, she fled to his side and sank down, a mere swirl of draperies. Denis, distracted, stooped over her. "Don't—don't!" he said. "Let us fetch a doctor—perhaps he's only fainted—"
"Fainted!" She raised her tragic little head; her eyes, ranging round the room, met and fixed on Gardiner. "He's been murdered!" she cried out. "Murdered—and you did it, you!"
The imaginative man is at the mercy of his nerves; there is always an unsound link in his courage, liable to snap at any unexpected strain. It is a question of sheer luck whether he finds out his weakness and is able to take precautions beforehand. The unimaginative man never understands this. To Denis's infinite dismay, Gardiner simply backed into the corner, throwing up his arm as if to ward a blow. Denis himself cried out the first denial that rose to his lips.