“Murder—a woman!” it was a kind of hoarse scream.
“You have been attacked? No?” as his eye ran quickly over her speckless habit. “What is it, then? Sit down and tell us about it.” He led her to a chair, and waved the attendants away. “You have had a shock? A glass of wine!” he signed to a waiting servant. “Now let us hear what it is.”
“Compose yourself, for Heaven’s sake!” growled Richard Ambrose—not encouragingly, but the harsh tone proved more effectual than the Resident’s kindness in enabling Eveleen to pull herself together. With her fingers tightly pressed against one another she sat upright and spoke jerkily.
“’Twas a poor woman—just a bit of a girl. Her father and her husband had quarrelled. The horrid wretch—the husband, I mean—went straight home—and called her out. The creature
