upboard shining with willow pattern tea-cups, Milly shut the door and
turned on her friend.

"Now," she said, "I came down to see you, because there are some things
I couldn't write--even to you. You can go back to the station in the
cab, I've told the man to wait. And I hope I shall never see your face
again."

"What do you mean?" Jane asked the question mechanically, and not at all
because she did not know the answer.

"You know what I mean," the other answered, still with white fury. "I've
found you out. You thought you were safe, and Edgar was dead, and no one
would know. But as it happens _I_ knew; and so shall everybody else."

Jane moistened dry lips, and said: "Knew what?" and held on by the
table.

"You didn't think he'd told _me_ about it, did you?" Milly flashed--"but
he did."

"I think you must tell _me_ what you mean," Jane said, and shifted her
hold from table to armchair.

"Oh, certainly." Milly tossed her head, and Jane's fingers tightened on
the chair-back. "Yes, I don't wonder you look ill--I suppose you were
sorry when you'd done it. But it's no use being sorry; you should have
thought of all that before."

"Tell me," said Jane, low.

"I'll tell you fast enough. You shall see I do know. Well, then, that
story you sent me--you just copied it from a story of Edgar's that was
in the old cabinet. He wrote it when he was here; and he said it wasn't
good, and I said it was, and then he said he'd leave it in the secret
drawer, and see how it looked when he came back. And you found it. And
you thought you were very clever, I daresay, and that Edgar was dead,
and no one would know. But I knew, and----"

"Yes," Jane interrupted, "you said that before. So you think I found
Edgar's manuscript? If I did it I must have done it in my sleep. I used
to walk in my sleep when I was a child. You believe me, Milly, don't
you?"

"No," said Milly, "I don't."

"Then I'll say nothing more," said Jane with bitter dignity. "I will go
at once, and I will try to forgive your cruelty. _I_ would never have
doubted _your_ word--never. I am very ill--look at me. I had a sleeping
draught, and I suppose it upset me: such things have happened. You've
known me eight or nine years: have you ever known me do a dishonourable
thing, or tell a lie? The dishonour is in yourself, to believe such
things of me."

Jane had drawn herself up, and stood, tall and haggard, her dark eyes
glowing in their deep sockets. The other woman