She raised her wild eyes to his, and then glanced round the pretty apartment. Her gaze fell upon Ralph Ansell’s dead face, and she shuddered and shrank back. Her mouth was twitching. She was hysterical, and could say nothing.
“Tell me, Jean. What does all this mean?” asked Bracondale, very quietly, considering the circumstances.
“Ah! no dear!” she cried. “Don’t ask me—don’t ask me! I—I killed him!”
“Killed him!” echoed her husband blankly. “What do you mean? You are not yourself, dearest.”
She looked at the servants meaningly.
“Will you leave us alone?” Bracondale said, turning to them just as Miss Oliver returned with the bottle of smelling-salts.
They all left the room, including the governess, husband and wife being left with the dead man.
“Tell me, darling, what has occurred?” asked Bracondale in a soft, sympathetic voice, endeavouring to calm her.
For a long time she refused to answer. She could not bring herself to speak a lie to him, not even a white lie! The night had been so full of horror and tragedy that she was beside herself. She wondered whether it were not, after all, a horrible dream.