She brushed aside the plausible web of circumstances with the impatient hand of an angry woman.

They might talk till Doomsday, but they wouldn't convince her that Robert, of all men, had done anything so disgraceful as take his own life.

Arguments and events, the locked door and the inaccessible windows--pathetically masculine insistence on mere details--were wasted on her.

The marshalled array of facts made not the slightest impression on her firm belief that Robert had not shot himself.
Shaking a large finger of angry import at Austin, and addressing herself to him alone, she had said-- "Robert has been murdered, Austin, I feel sure.

I don't care what you say, but if there's law in England I'll have his murderer discovered." And with that conclusion she had indignantly left the house with her husband, leaving her brother to walk back to his lodgings at the churchtown in moody solitude across the rainy darkness of the moors.
For herself, she returned to her hotel to pass a sleepless night, tossing by the side of her placidly unconscious husband as she passed the tragic events of the night in review and vainly sought for some clue to the mystery.