His face was very pale and he was busy now setting a chair in place, moving a photograph, doing any one of the little unnecessary things people restlessly do when there is an importunate visitor in the room who will not go.
"You see, there's terribly bad news," he added.
"What news ?" "He was shot, you know.

That wasn't in the telegram on the tape, of course.

Yes, he was shot--on the same night you dined there--after you had gone." "Shot!" Thresk's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Yes," and the dull quiet voice went on, speaking apparently of some trivial affair in which none of them could have any interest.

"He was shot by a bullet from a little rook-rifle which belonged to Stella, and which she was in the habit of using." Thresk's heart stood still.

A picture flashed before his eyes.