to catch it,
'what people are saying--what my people suspect about--about Oliver
Hobart's death.'

'Yes, I know.'

'Well--it wasn't Mr. Gideon.'

'You know that?' I said quickly. And a great relief flooded me. I hadn't
known, until that moment, because I had driven it under, how large a part
of my brain believed that Gideon had perhaps done this thing.

'Yes,' she whispered. 'I know it ... Because I know--I know--who did it.'

In that moment I felt that I knew too, and that Gideon knew, and that I
ought to have guessed all along.

I said nothing, but waited for the girl's next word, if she had a next
word to say. It wasn't for me to question her.

And then, quite suddenly, she gave a little moan of misery and broke into
passionate tears.

I waited for a moment, then I got up and poured her out a glass of water.
It must have been pretty bad for her. It must have been pretty bad all
this time, I thought, knowing this thing about her sister.

She drank the water, and became quieter.

'Do you want to tell me any more?' I asked her, presently.

'Oh, I do, I do. But it's so difficult ... I don't know how to tell
you.... Oh, God ... It was _I_ that killed him!'

'Yes?' I said, after a moment, gently, and without apparent surprise. One
learns in parish work not to start, however much one may be startled. I
merely added a legitimate inquiry. 'Why was that?'

She gulped. 'I want to tell you everything. I _want_ to.'

I was sure she did. She had reached the familiar pouring-out stage. It
was obviously going to be a relief to her to spread herself on the
subject. I am pretty well used to being told everything, and at times a
good deal more, and have learnt to discount much of it. I looked away
from her and prepared to listen, and to give my mind to sifting, if I
could, the fact from the fancy in her story. This is a special art, and
one which all parsons do well to learn. I have heard my vicar on the
subject of women's confessions.

'Women--women. Some of them will invent any crime--give themselves away
with both hands--merely to make themselves interesting. Poor things, they
don't realise how tedious sin is. One has to be on one's guard the whole
time, with that kind.'

I deduced that Clare Potter might possibly be that kind. So I listened
carefully, at first neither believing nor disbelieving.

'It's difficult to tell you,' she began, in a pathetic, unsteady voice.
'It hurts, rather ...'

'No, I think not,