"How dare you call him a murderer?" said Christabel, trembling, and cold to the heart. It seemed to her as if the mild autumnal air--here in this sheltered nook which was always warmer than the rest of the world--had suddenly become an icy blast that blew straight from far away arctic seas. "How dare you call my husband a murderer?" "Oh, I forgot. It was a duel, I suppose: a fair fight, planned so skilfully that the result should seem like an accident, and the survivor should run no risk. Still, to my mind, it was murder all the same--for I know who provoked the quarrel--yes--and you know--you, who are his wife--and who, for respectability's sake, will try to shield him--you know--for you must have seen hatred and murder in his face that night when he came into the drawing-room--and asked Mr. Hamleigh for a few words in private. It was then he planned this work," pointing to the broad level stone against which the clear water was rippling with such a pretty playful sound, while those two women stood looking at each other with pale intent faces, fixed eyes, and tremulous lips; "and Angus Hamleigh, who valued his brief remnant of earthly life so lightly, consented--reluctantly perhaps--but too proud to refuse. And he fired in the air--yes, I know he would not have injured your husband by so much as a hair of his head--I know him well enough to be sure of that. He came here like the victim to the altar. Leonard Tregonell must have known that. And I say that though he, with his Mexican freebooter's morality, may have called it a fair fight, it was murder, deliberate, diabolical murder." "If this is true," said Christabel in a low voice, "I will have no mercy upon him." "Oh, yes, you will. You will sacrifice feeling to propriety, you will put a good face upon things, for the sake of your son. You were born and swaddled in the purple of respectability. You will not stir a finger to avenge the dead." "I will have no mercy upon him," repeated Christabel, with a strange look in her eyes. CHAPTER IV. "DUST TO DUST." The inquest at the Wharncliffe Arms was conducted in a thoroughly respectable, unsuspicious manner. No searching questions were asked, no inferences drawn. To the farmers and tradespeople who constituted that rustic jury, the case seemed too simple to need any severe interrogation. A gentleman staying in a country house goes out shooting, and is so unlucky as to shoot himself instead of the birds whereof he went in search. He is found with an empty bag, and a charge of swan-shot through his heart. "Hard lines," as Jack Vandeleur observed, _sotto voce_, to a neighbouring squire, while the inquest was pursuing its sleepy course, "and about the queerest fluke I ever saw on any table."