o her morning duties, and she little imagined that she was
entering the darkest hour of her life, and that before the clock struck
again overwhelming disaster would have fallen upon her. Her young
husband was working in the garden, as was his habit each morning before
going to his office. She expected him in every moment to make ready for
his departure down town. She heard the click of the front gate, and a
moment 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,