and that it would turn out to be the turning point of the mystery.
I spent a troubled night. Dennis was up and about and out of the house long before breakfast to “study the latest developments,” as he said.
Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morning’s sensational bit of news.
We had just sat down to breakfast when she burst into the room, her cheeks red and her eyes shining, and addressed us with her customary lack of ceremony.
“Would you believe it? The baker’s just told me. They’ve arrested young Mr. Redding.”
“Arrested Lawrence,” cried Griselda incredulously. “Impossible. It must be some stupid mistake.”
“No mistake about it, mum,” said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. “ Mr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and ‘I did it,’ he says. Just like that.”
She looked at us both, nodded her head vigorously, and withdrew satisfied with the effect she had produced. Griselda and I stared at each other.
“Oh! It isn’t true,” said Griselda. “It can’t be true.”
She noticed my silence, and said: “Len, you don’t think it’s true?”
I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head.
“He must be mad,” said Griselda. “Absolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off?”