terchange of notes to
avoid discrepancy in their evidence; nor with Bernard . . . the
murderer. Since the night when he carried Val dead over the
vicarage threshold Lawrence had not seen his cousin. He had seen
Laura and tried to comfort her, but what could one say? It was
murder. Had it not been for Laura he would have left Clowes to
stand his trial. Even for her sake he would not have kept the
secret if Rowsley, to whom alone it was revealed, had not given
his leave, in the dim blinded room where revenge and anger seemed
small things, and Val's last words, almost unremarked at the
time, took on the solemn force of a dying injunction. The grey
placidity of Val's closed eyelids and crossed hands was the last
memory that Lawrence would have chosen to evoke on his wedding
night.

"Come and get warm," said Isabel. She saw that she had startled
and distressed her husband, and she drew him down into an immense
armchair by the fire, a man's chair, spacious and soft. "Is
there room for me too?" She slipped into it beside him and threw
her arms round his neck. Lawrence held her lightly and
passively. Not once during their engagement had she so
surrendered herself to him for more than a moment, and he dared
not take advantage of his opportunities for fear of losing her
again. But Isabel smiled at him with shut eyes. "All my heart,"
she murmured; "don't be afraid, I'm not going to slip through
your fingers now . . . I love you too, too much . . . Val would
say it was wrong to care so much for any one."

Val again! Lawrence lifted her eyelashes with his finger.
"Isabel, why are you haunted by Val now? I don't want you to
think of any one but me."

"Are you jealous of the dead?"

"Not I!" his voice rang out harsh with passion: "with you in my
arms why should I be jealous of any one in heaven or earth?"

"Val would say that was wrong too. . . . Lawrence, do you
remember your first wedding night?"

"Well enough."

"Was Lizzie beautiful?"

"I thought so then. She was a tall, well-made piece: black hair,
blue eyes, buxom and plenty of colour. I was shy of her because--
it's a curious fact--she was my first experience of your sex:
but she was not shy with me, though I believe she too was--
technically--innocent. Even at the time I was conscious of
something wanting--some grace, some reserve, some economy of
effect. She was of a coming-on disposition, very amorous and
towardly."

"Val would call that coars