we've got to go on as we're made, I suppose, only _do_ take my
advice about not getting morbid over it. By the way, I see I'm playing
against St. Martin's this afternoon."

"Yes. I thought at first I wouldn't play. But I suppose it's better to
go on doing one's ordinary things. You're coming in to-night, aren't
you?

"Are you sure you want me after all this disturbance?

"Why, of course; my mother's expecting you. Half-past seven. Don't
dress." He raised his arms above his head, yawning. He was obviously
better for the talk. His eyes were less strained, his body more alert.
"I'm tired to death. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night--saw poor
Carfax in the dark--ugh! Well, we meet this afternoon."

When the door closed Olva had the sensation of having been on his trial.
Craven's eyes still followed him. Nerves, of course . . . but they had
strangely reminded him of Bunker.

3

Olva had never been to Craven's house before. It stood in a little
street that joined Cambridge to the country. At one end of the prim
little road the lamps stopped abruptly and a white chalk path ran
amongst dark common to a distant wood.

At the other end a broader road with tram-lines crossed. The house was
built by itself, back from the highway, with a tiny drive and some dark
laurels. It was always gloomy and apparently unkept. The autumn leaves
were dull and sodden upon the drive; the bell and knocker upon the heavy
door, from which the paint was worn in places, were rusty. No sound came
from the little road beyond.

The place seemed absolutely without life. Olva now, as he sent the
bell pealing through the passages, knew that this dark desertion had an
effect upon his nerves. A week ago he would not have noticed the place
at all--now he longed for lights and noise and company. He had played
foot-ball that afternoon better than ever before; that, too, had been a
defence, almost a protest, an assertion of his right to live.

As he waited his thoughts pursued him. He had heard them say to-night
that no clue had been discovered, that the police were entirely at
a loss. It was impossible to trace foot-marks amongst all that
undergrowth. No one had been seen in that direction during the hours
when the murder must have been committed . . . so on--so on . . . all
this talk, this discussion. The wretched man was dead--no one would miss
him--no one cared--leave him alone, leave him alone. Olva pulled the
bell again furiously. Why couldn't