The reproaches, the
taunts, the threats. Young Hepworth--he struck everyone as a weak
man, a man physically afraid--white, stammering, not knowing which
way to look. The woman's eyes turning from one to the other. That
flash of contempt again--she could not help it--followed, worse
still, by pity. If only he could have answered back, held his own!
If only he had not been afraid! And then that fatal turning away
with a sneering laugh one imagines, the bold, dominating eyes no
longer there to cower him.
"That must have been the moment. The bullet, if you remember,
entered through the back of the man's neck. Hepworth must always
have been picturing to himself this meeting--tenants of garden
suburbs do not carry loaded revolvers as a habit--dwelling upon it
till he had worked himself up into a frenzy of hate and fear. Weak
men always fly to extremes. If there was no other way, he would
kill him.
"Can't you hear the silence? After the reverberations had died
away! And then they are both down on their knees, patting him,
feeling for his heart. The man must have gone down like a felled
ox; there were no traces of blood on the carpet. The house is far
from any neighbour; the shot in all probability has not been heard.
If only they can get rid of the body! The pond--not a hundred yards
away!"
He reached for the brief, still lying among his papers; hurriedly
turned the scored pages.
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