Roger made an inarticulate remark.

"Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently.

"I see." He was carefully expressionless.

"And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried pa.s.sionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see.

All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise.

I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge.

He nodded.

"Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?"

"You want to think so?" He considered her curiously.

"It mitigates it."

"That she killed herself?"

"It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?"

"No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?"

"Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before."

"I see. Was she ambitious?"

"Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing."

"Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern.

"Oh, no!"

"You're sure?"

"Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything."

He smiled a little.

"How old is your friend?"

She looked surprised.

"Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?"

"I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?"

"Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----"

"Was she?" He was frowning interestedly.

"I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know."

"She said so?"

"Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered.

"Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly.

"It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction.

"My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?"

She shook her head with a frightened look at him.

"No!" she said hurriedly. "No!"

"Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?"

She averted her eyes.

"I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course."

"You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago."

"Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully.

He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves.

He smiled at her pleasantly.

"Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not."

She subsided at this.

"I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you."

She hesitated, her older self once more supervening.

"Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----"

"Well?" he urged her forward.

"I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----"