Not in the heart - not to kill, just wing you, so that you couldn't get away.
I'm a jolly good shot, you know.
I saved your life once.
More fool I.
No, no, I want you hanged - yes, hanged.
It isn't you I want the knife for.
It's Claire - pretty Claire, so white and soft.
Old West knew.
That's what he was here for tonight, to see if I were mad or not.
He wanted to shut me up - so that I shouldn't get at Claire with a knife.
I was very cunning.
I took his latchkey and yours, too.
I slipped away from the dance as soon as I got there.
I saw you come out of his house, and I went in.
I shot him and came away at once.
Then I went to your place and left the revolver.
I was at the Grafton Galleries again almost as soon as you were, and I put the latchkey back in your coat pocket when I was saying good night to you.
I don't mind telling you all this.
There's no one else to hear, and when you're being hanged I'd like you to know I did it... There's not a loophole of escape.
It makes me laugh... God, how it makes me laugh!
What are you thinking of?
What the devil are you looking at?"
"I'm thinking of some words you quoted just now.
You'd have done better, Trent, not to come home."
"What do you mean?"
"Look behind you!"Trent spun round.
In the doorway of the communicating room stood Claire - and Inspector Verall...Trent was quick.
The revolver spoke just once - and found its mark.
He fell forward across the table.
The inspector sprang to his side, as Dermot stared at Claire in a dream.
Thoughts flashed through his brain disjointedly.
His uncle - their quarrel - the colossal misunderstanding - the divorce laws of England which would never free Claire from an insane husband - "we must all pity her" - the plot between her and Sir Alington which the cunning of Trent had seen through - her cry to him,
"Ugly - ugly - ugly!"
Yes, but now -The inspector straightened up."Dead," he said vexedly."Yes," Dermot heard himself saying, "he was always a good shot..."