There was none of the old, graceful nonchalance in the voice as he spoke that word. It was strained, husky, tense, like that of a man who is putting the most violent restraint upon some wild passion.
Mrs. Chalmers uttered a little cry, a cry that could not be described in its terror, suspense, she knew not what, of horrible presentiment; but Jessica's head was flung up, her nostrils dilated, her eyes wild and filled with a curious expression which her mother could not fathom, even had she been in a mental condition to try.
And then Jessica repeated that awful word, repeated it in a voice which contained a note of triumph—hideous triumph—that shot through her mother's weaker soul with renewed terror:
"Murder!"
There were volumes in the mere utterance. She stood looking at him for just a moment, then deliberately sat down and crossed her hands between her knees, looking up at him curiously. Mrs. Chalmers leaned against the mantel-shelf for needed support.
"How horrible!" exclaimed Jessica. "And that it should be some one we all know—actually engaged to Carlita! It reads quite like a story book, doesn't it? Do sit down and tell us all about it."
But Leith did not sit. He passed his hands across his brow as if his head ached.
"I can't," he answered, heavily. "It is getting late, and I am worn out. I haven't slept for—I can't remember just how long, but I feel seedy and in need of rest. I think I'll go now, and come again tomorrow, if you'll let me."
"But at least you'll tell us the main facts!" cried Jessica. "It won't take a minute. Who murdered him?"