Harold Quaritch was as simple and unsuspicious a man as it would be easy to find, but he was no fool.  He had moved about the world and on various occasions come in contact with cases of this sort, as most other men have done.  He knew that when a woman, in a moment of distress, calls a man by his Christian name it is because she is in the habit of thinking of him and speaking to him by that name.  Not that there was much in that by itself, but in public she called him “Mr. Cossey.”  “Edward” clearly then was the “only thing she loved,” and Edward was secretly engaged to Ida, and Mrs. Quest knew it.

Now when a man who is not her husband has the fortune, or rather the misfortune, to be the only thing a married woman ever loved, and when that married woman is aware of the fact of his devotion and engagement to somebody else, it is obvious, he reflected, that in nine cases out of ten the knowledge will excite strong feelings in her breast, feelings indeed which in some natures would amount almost to madness.

When he had first seen Mrs. Quest that afternoon she and Cossey were alone together, and he had noticed something unusual about her, something unnatural and intense.  Indeed, he remembered he had told her that she looked like the Tragic Muse.  Could it be that the look was the look of a woman maddened by insult and jealousy, who was meditating some fearful crime? How did that gun go off? He did not see it, and he thanked heaven that he did not, for we are not always so anxious to bring our fellow creatures to justice as we might be, especially when they happen to be young and lovely women.  How did it go off?  She understood guns; he could see that from the way she handled it.  Was it likely that it exploded of itself, or owing to an accidental touch of the trigger?  It was possible, but not likely.  Still, such things have been known to happen, and it would be very difficult to prove that it had not happened in this case.  If it should be attempted murder it was very cleverly managed, because nobody could prove that it was not accidental.  But could it be that this soft, beautiful, baby-faced woman had on the spur of the moment taken advantage of his loaded gun to wreak her jealousy and her wrongs upon her faithless lover?  Well, the face is no mirror of the quality of the soul within, and it was possible.  Further than that it did not seem to him to be his business to inquire.

By this time he had reached the Castle.  The Squire had gone out but Ida was in, and he was shown into the drawing-room while the servant went to seek her.  Presently he heard her dress rustle upon the stairs, and the sound of it sent the blood to his heart, for where is the music that is more sweet than the rustling of the dress of the woman whom we love?

“Why, what is the matter?” she said, noticing the disturbed expression on his face.

“Well,” he said, “there has been an accident—­a very bad accident.”