The Winding Stair by A.E.W. Mason

What had happened between the moment when Gerard de Montignac rode away from the door of Si Tayeb Reha's house the first time and the moment when the pistol-shot rang out? It had all been Marguerite Lambert's idea-a despairing clutch at some faint and far-off possibility, hardly a hope, yet worth putting to the proof. She had heard every word which Gerard had spoken. She had seen the revolver laid upon the table. She had seen even more than that. For when Gerard had gone from the room, Paul had taken the revolver at once in his hands. It would be a very little while before the sergeant noticed that Gerard's revolver was missing from its pouch. He had not even time to write more than one "good-bye" to Marguerite. There were good friends who would look after her-the Basha himself, Selim his own servant.

The road to the coast passed across the plain below the city, and there was a letter for her long since written with his instructions, on the top of his desk. He paused after he had written his one word to make sure that he had forgotten nothing. The addresses of his agents and his lawyers were written in the letter and all that he had, his property in the English funds, his houses in Fez and Casablanca, was bequeathed to her in a will of which Mr. Ferguson had charge. No, nothing had been forgotten-except that Marguerite herself was watching him from behind the curtains. She came into the room.