ening to you. It will be worse than
ever now, after last night. I don't seem to feel it when I'm actually
with you--I suppose I'm too happy--but when I'm away from you it's
just like some ghastly horrible sword hanging over our heads all the
time. Neil darling, as soon as you get this money from McMurtrie--if
you do get it--can't we just give up the whole thing and go away and
be happy together?"

I lifted her hand and pressed the inside of it against my lips.

"Joyce," I said, "think what it means. It's just funking life--just
giving it up because the odds seem too heavy against us. I shouldn't
have minded killing Marks in the least. I should be rather proud of
it. If I had, we would go away together tomorrow, and I should never
worry my head as to what any one in the world was saying or thinking
about me." I paused. "But I didn't kill him," I added slowly, "and
that just makes all the difference."

Joyce's blue eyes were very near tears, but they looked back steadily
and bravely into mine.

"Yes, yes," she said. "I didn't really mean it, Neil. I was just weak
for the moment--that's all. Right down in my heart I want everything
for you; I could never be contented with less. I want the whole world
to know how they've wronged you; I want you to be famous and powerful
and splendid, and I want the people who've abused you to come and
smirk and grovel to you, and say that they knew all the time that you
were innocent." She stopped and took a deep breath. "And they shall,
Neil. I'm as certain of it as if I saw it happening. I seem to know
inside me that we're on the very point of finding out the truth."

I don't think my worst enemy would accuse me of being superstitious,
but there was a ring of conviction in Joyce's voice which somehow or
other affected me curiously.

"I believe you're right," I said. "I've got something of that sort of
feeling too. Perhaps it's infectious." Then, letting go her hand, to
spare the feelings of the waiter who had just come into the room, I
sat back in my chair and ordered the bill.

We didn't talk much on our way to the station. I think we were both
feeling rather depressed at the prospect of doing without each other
for at least twenty-four hours, and in any case the trams and motors
and jostling crowd of holiday-makers who filled the main street would
have rendered any connected conversation rather a difficult art.

A good many people favoured Joyce with glances of admiration,
esp