“Harborough said—to you—that it was due to Guy Markenmore that he, Harborough, had lost his chance with you, and that if he ever met Guy again, however long it might be, he’d shoot him like a dog?” “Yes. That is precisely what he said.” “I take it, then, that at that time Harborough was passionately in love with you?” “Madly, I believe!” murmured Mrs. Tretheroe. “He acted like a madman. I was afraid of him.” “When this threat was made had Guy Markenmore gone away from here?” “Oh, yes—some little time before.” “And did Harborough go soon after?” “He went away a few days before I was married.” “Now, during the seven years of your marriage—six years, rather, I think—did you ever meet Harborough?” “Never!” “Ever hear from him?” “No.” “Or of him?” “I heard—just once—from a friend of mine in Selcaster that he was still travelling abroad, and that Greycloister had then been shut up for some years.” “Very well. In time your husband died, and you came back to England and took the Dower House here. And last Monday Mr. Harborough returned to Greycloister. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want to ask you a most important question. Did you meet John Harborough last Monday?” A dead silence fell on the room. For Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated in her answer. Every neck was craned forward. At last she spoke. “Yes!” “Where?—and at what time?” “Just outside his own gates, at Greycloister, about five o’clock in the afternoon.” “Were you alone?” “I was. I had gone out for a short walk by myself, with my dogs.” “The meeting was accidental?” “Certainly. I had no idea he’d come home.” “Was there any—shall we call it embarrassment?” “Well, yes. I was surprised. He seemed taken aback—agitated. Of course we shook hands and talked a little. Mere talk.” “Any reference to your former relations?” “No.” “Just a mere polite exchange of—nothing in particular?” “Just that. But he asked if—or, rather, when—he might come and see me.” “And what did you reply?” “I replied—well, that he might come whenever he liked. What else could I reply?” “He knew that you were free?—that Colonel Tretheroe was dead?” “Oh, yes—I mentioned that myself.” “And then, I suppose, you parted?” “Yes.” “Where did you next see him?” “On the following morning, in the morning-room here, when I came in to offer my condolences about Sir Anthony, and heard that Guy was dead.” “And I believe that you immediately denounced John Harborough as his murderer?” “I did.” The barrister paused in his examination, hesitated a while; and then, as if satisfied, suddenly dropped back in his seat, and pulling out a snuff-box, tapped it thoughtfully before helping himself to a substantial pinch. A murmur of excitement had run round the spectators when Mrs. Tretheroe gave her last decided answer; it had scarcely died away before Harborough’s solicitor, Mr. Walkinshaw, rose at the table. He looked fixedly at the witness.