“But, Terence—” cried her ladyship from above.
“Ah?” said Sir Terence, and he looked up. “You would say—?” he encouraged her, for she had broken off abruptly, checked again—although none below could guess it—by the one behind who prompted her.
“Couldn’t you—couldn’t you wait?” she was faltering, compelled to it by his question.
“Certainly. But for what?” quoth he, grimly sardonic.
“Wait until you have some explanation,” she concluded lamely.
“That will be the business of the court-martial,” he answered. “My duty is quite clear and simple; I think. You needn’t wait, Captain Tremayne.”
And so, without another word, Tremayne turned and departed. The soldiers, in compliance with the short command issued by Sir Terence, took up the body and bore it away to a room in the official quarters; and in their wake went Colonel Grant, after taking his leave of Sir Terence. Her ladyship vanished from the balcony and closed her windows, and finally Sir Terence, followed by Mullins, slowly, with bowed head and dragging steps, reentered the house. In the quadrangle, flooded now by the cold, white light of the moon, all was peace once more. Sir Terence turned into his study, sank into the chair by his desk and sat there awhile staring into vacancy, a diabolical smile upon his handsome, mobile mouth. Gradually the smile faded and horror overspread his face. Finally he flung himself forward and buried his head in his arms.
There were steps in the hall outside, a quick mutter of voices, and then the door of his study was flung open, and Miss Armytage came sharply to rouse him.
“Terence! What has happened to Captain Tremayne?”
He sat up stiffly, as she sped across the room to him. She was wrapped in a blue quilted bed-gown, her dark hair hung in two heavy plaits, and her bare feet had been hastily thrust into slippers.