“You are quite at liberty to act just as you think best,” she answered with perfect frankness.
He thanked her, and then tactfully turned the conversation back to the events of the previous night. It might have been owing to the prejudice which I entertained towards her, but somehow she seemed anxious to avoid any remark regarding the period immediately preceding the tragedy. Naturally a wife whose husband has been foully assassinated in a manner so mysterious, would look back in horror upon past events; but in some strange, indefinite way she seemed to hold our presence in dread.
Bullen, not slow to notice this, continued to ply her with questions in order to obtain further details of how the hours after dinner had been spent.
“Who saw your husband last?” he inquired.
“I don’t know for certain. I believe it was one of the guests—a Mr Durrant, with whom he had played billiards.”
“After he had complained to you of not feeling well?”
“No; he played billiards before,” she answered. Then readily added, “On leaving me he returned to the billiard-room to fetch his cigar-case. It was then he wished Mr Durrant good-night.”
“Did he tell him, also, that he was unwell?”
“Yes, I believe so. But Mr Durrant sent a card of sympathy to my room and left without seeing me. I therefore only know this by hearsay from the servants.”
“You have a stepson—Lieutenant Chetwode. Where was he?”