"He is quite dead."
He stood up as he spoke, and Sir Terence observed with terrible
inward mirth that his tone had the frank and honest ring, his
bearing the imperturbable ease which more than once before had
imposed upon him as the outward signs of an easy conscience. This
secretary of his was a cool scoundrel.
"Samoval, is it?" said Sir Terence, and went down on one knee
beside the body to make a perfunctory examination. Then he looked
up at the captain.
"And how did this happen?"
"Happen?" echoed Tremayne, realising that the question was being
addressed particularly to himself. "That is what I am wondering.
I found him here in this condition."
"You found him here? Oh, you found him here in this condition!
Curious!" Over his shoulder he spoke to the butler: "Mullins, you
had better call the guard." He picked up the slender weapon that
lay beside Samoval. "A duelling sword!" Then he looked searchingly
about him until his eyes caught the gleam of the other blade near
the wall, where himself he had dropped it. "Ah!" he said, and went
to pick it up. "Very odd!" He looked up at the balcony, over the
parapet of which his wife was leaning. "Did you see anything, my
dear?" he asked, and neither Tremayne nor she detected the faint
note of wicked mockery in the question.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227