“My dear Mrs. Protheroe—”
“Oh! It’s quite true. I suppose I’ve said it rather bluntly, but I never can go into hysterics over anything. I’ve hated him for a long time, and yesterday I shot him.”
She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
“That’s all. I suppose you’ll arrest me and take me away. I’ll get up and dress as soon as I can. At the moment I am feeling rather sick.”
“Are you aware, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Lawrence Redding has already accused himself of committing the crime?”
Anne opened her eyes and nodded brightly.
“I know. Silly boy. He’s very much in love with me, you know. It was frightfully noble of him—but very silly.”
“He knew that it was you who had committed the crime?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know?”
She hesitated.
“Did you tell him?”
Still she hesitated. Then at last she seemed to make up her mind.
“Yes—I told him …”
She twitched her shoulders with a movement of irritation.
“Can’t you go away now? I’ve told you. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”