'Mr. FitzHoward, you forget one thing.'
'What's that?'
'James is dead.'
'I don't forget it. I remember it all the time. But there are visitations of Providence, Marchioness, which we must all put up with; the lowly like me, as well as the great like you.'
'He was killed.'
'Killed! Mrs. Merrett! I mean, Marchioness!'
'Mr. Howarth killed him.'
'I say! My dear lady--if you'll pardon my dropping the title for just this once--don't you go taking foolish words of mine as if they'd been meant. As I explained to you yesterday, I've a professional way of talking and an unprofessional; and when I'm talking professionally, I'm not, between you and me, to be taken as meaning just exactly what I say. Now this is an unprofessional moment, in which we're dealing with the cold, dry truth; so let me take this opportunity to tell you that what I was saying about Mr. Howarth, in my professional manner, was just tommy rot, and nothing more. A man in Mr. Howarth's position is no more likely to kill your husband, or any one else, than he is to ride on a broomstick to the moon.'
'But he did kill him.'
'Now, my dear, my esteemed Marchioness, what grounds have you for saying that? What tittle of evidence--outside my balderdash, which, mind, was balderdash, and nothing else--have you which points that way?'