But her hysterical, glad cry was stifled in her throat as her husband, bending forward over the rug, turned over the dead man with his foot.
Fearful, yet eager to see, she rose upon her knees, peering with wide eyes over the foot-board.
Then—hysteria seized her with, by turns, a sudden storm of mingled weeping and frantic laughter.
“That.... That...!” she cried, pointing a shaking finger at the still figure on the carpet.
And then:
“Oh, my God!... it might have been—!”
But Daventry, gazing with a grim face at the rigid figure of the housebreaker—the unclean skin, with its bristly stubble of unshaven chin, blue now under the lights—thought it merely the natural reaction of the terrific strain which she had undergone.
“You mean—it might have been—me!” he said slowly. “Well—of course....”
“Of course, Dear,” lied Rita Daventry, with a misty smile.