Another Woman's House by Mignon G. Eberhart Read Free Book Online Page B

closeness and frankness and yet could not. And he said, “The slugs that killed him were fired from my gun. They proved that. A man may have a gun all his life, practically, and never use it, but Sam and Tim and I had been target snooting, only a few weeks before the murder, down here on the beach, as a matter of fact. The slugs matched, all right. It was my gun that killed him. And then my gun disappeared. She was alone in the house with Jack. And Webb Manders saw her do it.”
    He had not really replied. But he would never reply to that question; he would never say “I believe she murdered him.”
    That was because he was Richard; and then she saw that the road they had traveled was a circle, that they had come back to the exact point at which they had entered it. Richard Thorne being Richard Thorne, he would never say, “I believe my wife committed murder.” And he would never, as long as Alice lived, be able to withdraw in her terrible need the support of his name and his loyal relationship.
    Perhaps she, Myra, could not let him do so.
    She said, blindly choosing trite and inadequate words, “You cannot change your own sense of loyalty, of your own creed and code. It’s bred in your bone; it’s part of your body.”
    He understood all the argument below it. He understood too that it was a fundamental argument in her own heart. His eyes deepened, searching her own. He said suddenly, “Myra, you must see this sensibly; you must be realistic and …”
    â€œOh, Richard, Richard!” She cried despairing, and put her head against his shoulder.
    He would not yield. He would not take her in his arms. But she felt his acknowledgment, his gradual surrender. He said at last in a tired voice, “It’s so silly, Myra. You and I—it isn’t as if she were ill or an invalid. It isn’t as if—really in our hearts we could ever hope for release. She’s young and, in spite of her fragile look, she’s extraordinarily healthy.”
    â€œDon’t …”
    â€œI don’t want her to die. I didn’t mean that! But it’s so horribly unfair, Myra.”
    â€œWe cannot change it.”
    He didn’t move; still did not so much as touch her.
    â€œI don’t want to have an affair with you. I want you for my wife.”
    On the fringe of her thoughts she had considered that, desperately, perhaps, yet quite coolly and sensibly, too. It probably could be arranged; probably no one would know and, if they did know, nobody was likely to blame them too much. Even Aunt Cornelia who could not fail to see all those intangible things that link a man and a woman who are lovers, even she would not blame them.
    No, it could be arranged. In a way they could share the life and the years that lay ahead of them. And it, too, was simply, flatly impossible. She knew it. Richard knew it.
    She said, her head still against his shoulder, the quiet and stillness of the chill spring night all around them, “Is there no way, Richard? I mean—a new trial—an appeal … ?”
    â€œImpossible. We always came up against the same three, cold, hard facts. I told you what those were a moment ago. She was alone in the house with him when he was shot and nobody could ever prove that anybody else was there. The slugs that killed him were fired by my gun and my gun was gone from the drawer of the table where it was kept and was never found. And, of course, the main, the clinching evidence was that Webb Manders said he saw her shoot him.”
    â€œWhat do you think happened to the gun, Richard? What could have happened to it?”
    â€œI don’t know. Nobody ever knew; God knows they looked for it—tore the house apart. But the disappearance of the gun was our big argument. It saved her life. Otherwise she’d have got the death sentence.”
    His voice was hard and dry. He’d lived with the thing, turning it over and over in his mind,