Wilson," cried Fisher, suddenly. "You shall not commit
a third murder."
Sir Walter Carey rose from his chair, which fell over with a crash
behind him. "What does all this mean?" he called out in an
authoritative manner.
"It means," said Fisher, "that this man, Hooker Wilson, as soon as
he had put his head in at that window, killed his two comrades who
had put their heads in at the other windows, by firing across the
empty room. That is what it means. And if you want to know, count
how many times he is supposed to have fired and then count the
charges left in his revolver."
Wilson, who was still sitting on the table, abruptly put a hand out
for the weapon that lay beside him. But the next movement was the
most unexpected of all, for the prince standing in the doorway
passed suddenly from the dignity of a statue to the swiftness of an
acrobat and rent the revolver out of the detective's hand.
"You dog!" he cried. "So you are the type of English truth, as I am
of Irish tragedy--you who come to kill me, wading through the blood
of your brethren. If they had fallen in a feud on the hillside, it
would be called murder, and yet your sin might be forgiven you. But
I, who am innocent, I was to be slain with ceremony. There would
be long speeches and patient judges listening to my vain plea of
innocence, noting down my despair and disregarding it.
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