I wanted instead to have this
conversation with you. I lied at the inquest when I said that
the relations between Oliver Hilditch and his wife that night
seemed perfectly normal. I lied when I said that I knew of no
cause for ill-will between them. I lied when I said that I left
them on friendly terms. I lied when I said that Oliver Hilditch
seemed depressed and nervous. I lied when I said that he
expressed the deepest remorse for what he had done. There was
every indication that night, of the hate which I happen to know
existed between the woman and the man. I have not the faintest
doubt in my mind but that she murdered him. In my judgment, she
was perfectly justified in doing so."
There followed a brief but enforced silence as some late arrivals
passed their table. The room was well-ventilated but Andrew
Wilmore felt suddenly hot and choking. A woman, one of the
little group of newcomers, glanced towards Francis curiously.
"Francis Ledsam, the criminal barrister," her companion
whispered,--"the man who got Oliver Hilditch off. The man with
him is Andrew Wilmore, the novelist. Discussing a case, I
expect."
CHAPTER VIII
The little party of late diners passed on their way to the
further end of the room, leaving a wave of artificiality behind,
or was it, Andrew Wilmore wondered, in a moment of half-dazed
speculation, that it was they and the rest of the gay company who
represented the real things, and he and his companion who were
playing a sombre part in some unreal and gloomier world.
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