Unable to understand the full meaning of those words, Basil stared stupidly, aghast and terror-struck. He opened his mouth to speak, but only gasped unintelligibly. He looked from one to another of those men, who watched him with indifference. The whole room turned round, and he could not see; he felt horribly faint, and then it seemed as though someone cruelly tore apart the sutures of his skull. He stretched out his hands aimlessly, and the inspector, understanding, led him to where Jenny lay. A doctor was still with her, but it seemed all efforts to restore life had been stopped.
“This is the husband,” said Basil’s guide.
“We could do nothing,” murmured the doctor. “She was quite dead when she was got out.”
Basil looked at her and hid his face. He felt inclined suddenly to scream at the top of his voice. It seemed too ghastly, too impossible.
“D’you know at all why she did it?” asked the doctor.
Basil did not answer, but gazed distraught at the closed eyes and the lovely hair disarranged and soaking wet.
“Oh, God! what shall I do? Can nothing be done at all?”
The doctor looked at him, and told a constable to bring some brandy; but Basil pushed it aside with distaste.
“What do you want me to do now?”
“You’d better go home. I’ll walk along with you,” said the doctor.