endured the pain rather than admit it. And suddenly I began to feel afraid—not so much of her, as of what she might do to Mr. Endicott. She was playing a trick and I didn’t know just what the purpose of it was. I ran upstairs and got my gun, then came right back.”
“She was still in bed?”
“Yes. But the shooting was over, and the room was cold. The room was cold”—Roberts’s voice was very intense as she drove her points home—“and her skin was cold, and her breathing was heavy from recent exertion. I think I was going to kill her. I would have killed her if the nurse hadn’t come in just then.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone of this at once, Miss Roberts?”
“Would you have? Would anyone have?”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“There had just been that shooting—and I had a gun. I wanted to get rid of it. By the time I had got rid of it, it was too late. I couldn’t say anything then without practically accusing myself of a murder I didn’t commit.”
“You’ll stay here in the house, Miss Roberts?”
“Naturally, since I’m to be accused of having killed Mr. Endicott.”
“Not as yet, Miss Roberts.”
“It won’t bother me.” She added bitterly, as she started for the door, “You’ll find me a tractable prisoner.”
“One minute please, Miss Roberts. How long were you gone from Mrs. Endicott’s room when you went upstairs to get the gun?”
“Just long enough to run up and back again. I have no idea, really.”