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CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. “Then either this man shot himself or some one else shot him immediately before your arrival—or rather if it was not himself the person who did it was in the room, say two minutes, before you arrived. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. They both listened intently. “It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. .
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