lied, or the
Ayres woman lied, or Clare is lying. She's forced to the conclusion that
it was the Ayres. So they've had words. I expect they'll make it up
before long. But at present there's rather a slump in Other Side
business.... And she wrote a letter of apology to Arthur. Father made
her, he was so afraid Arthur would bring a libel action.'

'Why didn't he?' I asked, wondering, first, how much of the truth
either Arthur or Jane had suspected all this time, and, secondly, how
much they now knew.

Jane looked at me with her guarded, considering glance.

'Well,' she said, 'I don't mind your knowing. You'd better not let on to
him that I told you, though; he mightn't like it. The fact is, Arthur
thought I'd done it. He thought it was because my manner was so queer, as
if I was trying to hush it up. I was. You see, I thought Arthur had done
it. It seemed so awfully likely. Because, I left them quarrelling. And
Arthur's got an awfully bad temper. And _his_ manner was so queer. We
never talked it out, till two days ago; we avoided talking to each other
at all, almost, after the first. But on that first morning, when he came
round to see me, we somehow succeeded in diddling one another, because we
were each so anxious to shield the other and hush it all up.... Clare
might have saved us both quite a lot of worrying if she'd spoken out at
once and said it was ... an accident.'

Jane's voice was so unemotional, her face and manner so calm, that she
is a very dark horse sometimes. I couldn't tell for certain whether she
had nearly instead of 'an accident' said 'her,' or whether she had
spoken in good faith. I couldn't tell how much she knew, or had been
told, or guessed.

I said, 'I suppose she didn't realise till lately that any one was likely
to be suspected,' and Jane acquiesced.

'Clare's funny,' she said, after a moment.

'People are,' I generalised.

'She has a muddled mind,' said Jane.

'People often have.'

'You never know,' said Jane thoughtfully, 'how much to believe of what
she says.'

'No? I dare say she doesn't quite know herself.'

'She does not,' said Jane. 'Poor old Clare.'

We necessarily left it at that, since Jane didn't, of course, mean to
tell me what story Clare had told of that evening's happenings, and I
couldn't tell Jane the one Clare had told me. I didn't imagine I should
ever be wiser than I was now on the subject, and it certainly wasn't my
business any more.

When I met Clare Pot