Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

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“Murder is a word with an ugly sound.”

Barrington Bryan’s dark face wore a faint suggestion of a sneer as he spoke. He lay back in the armchair in which he was seated, and watched Sacha narrowly. He saw the last traces of blood ebb from her cheeks.

“It is not true.”

Her whispered words sounded loud in the intense silence. Far away, in Park Lane perhaps, they heard the rumble of an omnibus. Barrington raised his shoulders in a slight shrug.

“God knows,” he said, “you had excuse enough. Orme might have driven any woman to murder. He must so have driven any man as hopelessly in love with you, his wife, as Dick Lovelace.”

The words fell with calculated deliberation, like blows. Sacha sprang to her feet and stood facing her tormentor. Her eyes, suddenly, were filled with wild fear.

“Dick had nothing to do with it. I swear that Dick had nothing to do with it. Oh, God!”

Barrington leaned forward. His dark eyes glowed now, and the cruel expression on his face was intensified.

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