The Law of the Land by Fred M. White

The deed was done, done beyond recall. It seemed to Ralph as if he had been the victim of some hypnotic force. Surely, with his own hand, he had never struck a fellow creature down like that! And there had been no provocation, no battling of one life against an other, no mere struggle for existence. It seemed impossible--but there it was.

And all in the twinkling of an eye. A red patch had blazed and burned before him. As to the rest, he could not speak definitely. He could feel the handle of the paper-knife in his grasp, a grasp so painful that the flesh of his palm was bruised. There was crimson on his right hand, dull glowing patches like carbuncles on the shining surface of the dining table. On the carpet, Stephen Holt lay stretched at length, face downwards, his hands flung over his head. A great band of crimson stained the delicate cream and gold and blue of the priceless Persian carpet; there were specks of horrid red on the great bowl of tea roses on the table. All those minute details Ralph noticed with an astounding grasp of little things. As a writer he had always had an eye for details, but never was that faculty more keenly developed than now. Ralph wondered at his own calmness. As he stood there he could feel his heart beating with normal regularity.