"And so, you really suspected me?" murmured Mrs. She thought then that she had shaken off the man of the bulging blue eyes forever, but that night she found he followed her into her dreams. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. Something to tell you. Perhaps I'd better open it now.
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