“I killed him.”
“You! You—killed—Ely—Crouch?”
“He had a cane,” she said, in a hurried, flat, half-whisper. “When he caught at me, I tried to get it to defend myself. The handle pulled out. There was a dagger on it. He came at me again. I didn’t realize what I was doing. All I could see was that hateful face drawing nearer. Then it changed and he seemed to dissolve into a hideous heap. I didn’t mean to kill him.” Her voice rose in the struggle against hysteria. “God knows, I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“Hush!”
His hands fell on her shoulders and held her against the onset. Energy and resolution quickened in his eyes. “Who knows of your being in the garden?”
“No one.”
“Any one see you climb the wall and come here?”
“No.”
“Or know that you had an appointment with him?”
“No.”