"He's dead!" she had cried out almost with a note of exultation.
"Dead! Dead! What else matters?"
The next moment she had apologised for her outburst.
"Nothing can do any good," she had said. "Let the thing take its
course."
It was the astounding callousness of the woman that told against her
both with the judge and the jury. That shaving in the dining-room,
the murdered man's body not yet cold! It must have been done with
Hepworth's safety-razor. She must have brought it down to him,
found him a looking-glass, brought him soap and water and a towel,
afterwards removing all traces. Except those few red hairs that had
clung, unnoticed, to the carpet. That nest of flat-irons used to
weight the body! It must have been she who had thought of them.
The idea would never have occurred to a man. The chain and padlock
with which to fasten them. She only could have known that such
things were in the house. It must have been she who had planned the
exchange of clothes in Hepworth's office, giving him the key. She
it must have been who had thought of the pond, holding open the door
while the man had staggered out under his ghastly burden; waited,
keeping watch, listening to hear the splash.
Evidently it had been her intention to go off with the murderer--to
live with him! That story about America.
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