J. S. Fletcher

“ Do you honestly believe that Mr. John Harborough killed Guy Markenmore? Think!"
"I have thought!" retorted Mrs. Tretheroe defiantly. "I do!"
"You believe that Mr. Harborough nursed his desire for revenge—if he ever really had any—for seven years, and took the first opportunity of gratifying it?"
"I think he shot Guy Markenmore," said Mrs. Tretheroe, with some show of sullenness.
"You think that Mr. Harborough returned home still in love with you? Answer!"
"I think it's possible. He used to swear that he could never love anybody else. And he certainly hadn't married." ”

“ Mr. Harborough met you on Monday afternoon. Let us suppose that all his old passion was revived at the mere sight of you—let us suppose, still further, that he made up his mind to once more become a suitor for your hand. Do you think it very likely that he would begin matters by shooting a man?"
"I'm not going to suppose anything. I believe he did shoot Guy. They met—accidentally—and Harborough shot him."
"You are a ready hand at making assertions, Mrs. Tretheroe! You calmly assert they met. What! at four o'clock in the morning—at Markenmore Hollow?" ”

“ Tretheroe began to finger her rings.
"Well," she answered after a pause. "I—the fact is, I got a bit sick of the squabble, so I told Guy it wouldn't do—and I accepted Colonel Tretheroe."
"I see. You got rid of both the youthful suitors, and married one who was older and more sensible. Very good. But now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I think something had happened before that. You said just now that Harborough conceived a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy Markenmore. Now, is it a fact that Harborough threatened his rival in your presence?" ”