Revenge! | Page 4

later some angry words. Alarmed, she was about to look
through the parted curtains of the bay-window in front when the sharp
crack of a revolver rang out, and she hastened to the door with a vague
sinking fear at her heart. As she flung open the door she saw two
things-- first, her husband lying face downwards on the grass
motionless, his right arm doubled under him; second, a man trying
frantically to undo the fastening of the front gate, with a smoking pistol
still in his hand.
Human lives often hang on trivialities. The murderer in his anxiety to
be undisturbed had closed the front gate tightly. The wall was so high
as to shut out observation from the street, but the height that made it
difficult for an outsider to see over it also rendered escape impossible.
If the man had left the gate open he might have got away unnoticed, but,
as it was, Mrs. Forder's screams aroused the neighbourhood, and before
the murderer succeeded in undoing the fastening, a crowd had collected
with a policeman in its centre, and escape was out of the question. Only
one shot had been fired, but at such close quarters that the bullet went
through the body. John Forder was not dead, but lay on the grass
insensible. He was carried into the house and the family physician
summoned. The doctor sent for a specialist to assist him, and the two
men consulted together. To the distracted woman they were able to
give small comfort. The case at best was a doubtful one. There was
some hope of ultimate recovery, but very little.
Meanwhile the murderer lay in custody, his own fate depending much
on the fate of his victim. If Forder died, bail would be refused; if he
showed signs of recovering, his assailant had a chance for, at least,
temporary liberty. No one in the city, unless it were the wife herself,
was more anxious for Forder's recovery than the man who had shot

him.
The crime had its origin in a miserable political quarrel--mere wrangle
about offices. Walter Radnor, the assassin, had 'claims' upon an office,
and, rightly or wrongly, he attributed his defeat to the secret
machinations of John Forder. He doubtless did not intend to murder his
enemy that morning when he left home, but heated words had speedily
followed the meeting, and the revolver was handy in his hip pocket.
Radnor had a strong, political backing, and, even after he stretched his
victim on the grass, he had not expected to be so completely deserted
when the news spread through the city. Life was not then so well
protected as it has since become, and many a man who walked the
streets free had, before that time, shot his victim. But in this case the
code of assassination had been violated. Radnor had shot down an
unarmed man in his own front garden and almost in sight of his wife.
He gave his victim no chance. If Forder had had even an unloaded
revolver in any of his pockets, things would not have looked so black
for Radnor, because his friends could have held that he had fired in
self- defence, as they would doubtless claim that the dying man had
been the first to show a weapon. So Radnor, in the city prison, found
that even the papers of his own political party were against him, and
that the town was horrified at what it considered a cold-blooded crime.
As time went on Radnor and his few friends began once more to hope.
Forder still lingered between life and death. That he would ultimately
die from his wound was regarded as certain, but the law required that a
man should die within a stated time after the assault had been
committed upon him, otherwise the assailant could not be tried for
murder. The limit provided by the law was almost reached and Forder
still lived. Time also worked in Radnor's favour in another direction.
The sharp indignation that had followed the crime had become dulled.
Other startling events occurred which usurped the place held by the
Forder tragedy, and Radnor's friends received more and more
encouragement.
Mrs. Forder nursed her husband assiduously, hoping against hope.
They had been married less than a year, and their love for each other

had increased as time went on. Her devotion to her husband had now
become almost fanatical, and the physicians were afraid to tell her how
utterly hopeless the case was, fearing that if the truth became known to
her, she would break down both mentally and physically. Her hatred of
the man who had wrought this misery was so deep and intense that
once when she spoke of him to her brother, who was a