ut I want you also to tell me what the damage
is. You're most awfully unwell. You're an utterly different man--changed
entirely during the last week or two, and we've all noticed it. But
it doesn't only worry us here; it worries your mother and sister too.
You've no right to keep it to yourself."

"There's nothing the matter."

"Of course there is. A man doesn't alter in a day for nothing, and I
date it all from that evening when you had tea with me, and I can't help
feeling that it's something that I can clear up. If it _is_ anything
that I can do, if I can clear your bother up in any way, you have only
to tell me. And," he added slowly, "I think at least that you owe me an
explanation of your own personal avoidance of me. No man has any right
to drop a friend without giving his reasons. You know that, Craven."

Craven suddenly raised his weary eyes. "I never was a friend of yours.
We were acquaintances--that's all."

"You made me a friend of your mother and sister. I demand an
explanation, Craven."

"There is no explanation. I'm not well--out of condition."

"Why?"

"Why is a fellow ever out of condition? I've been working too hard, I
suppose. . . . But you said you'd got something to tell me. What have
you got to tell me?"

"Tell me first what is troubling you."

"No."

"You refuse?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I have nothing to tell you."

"Then you brought me in here on a lie. I should never have come if---"

"Yes?"

"If I hadn't thought you had something to tell me."

"What should I have to tell you?"

"I don't know . . . nothing."

There was a pause, and then with a sudden surprising force, Craven
almost appealed--

"Dune, you _can_ help me. You can make a great difference. I _am_
ill; it's quite true. I'm not myself a bit and I'm tortured by
imaginations--awful things. I suppose Carfax has got on my nerves and
I've had absurd fancies. You _can_ help me if you'll just answer me one
question--only one. I don't want to know anything else, I'll never
ask you anything else--only this. Where were you on the afternoon that
Carfax was murdered?"

He brought it out at last, his hands gripping the sides of his chair,
all the agonized uncertainty of the last few weeks in his voice. Olva
faced him, standing above him, and looking down upon him.

"My dear Craven--what an odd question--why do you want to know?"

"Well, finding your matchbox like that--there in Sannet Wood--and I know
you must have los