Unless Jane had asked him to; unless it was for her sake.

It occurred to me that the thing to do was to go straight to Jane and tell her what was being said.  If she didn’t choose to do anything about it, that was her business, but I was determined she should know.

9

An hour later I was in Jane’s drawing-room.  Jane was sitting at her writing-table, and the room was dim except for the light from the reading-lamp that made a soft bright circle round her head and shoulders.  She turned round when I came in and said, ’Hallo, K. What an unusual hour.  You must have something very important to say, old thing.’

‘I have rather,’ I said, and sat down by her.  ’It’s this, Jane.  Do you know that people are saying—­spreading it about—­that Arthur killed your husband?’

It was very quiet in the room.  For a moment I heard nothing but the ticking of a small silver clock on the writing-table.  Jane sat quite still, and stared at me, not surprised, not angry, not shocked, but with a queer, dazed, blind look that reminded me of Arthur’s own.

Then I started, because some one in the farther shadows of the room drew a long, quivering breath and said ‘Oh,’ on a soft, long-drawn note.  Looking round, I saw Clare Potter.  She had just got up from a chair, and was standing clutching its back with one hand, looking pale and sick, as if she was going to faint.

I hadn’t, of course, known Clare was there, or I wouldn’t have said anything.  But I was rather irritated; after all, it wasn’t her business, and I thought it rather absurd the way she kept up her attitude of not being able to bear to hear Oliver Hobart’s death mentioned.

I got up to go.  After all, I had nothing more to say.  I didn’t want to stop and pry, only to let Jane know.

But as I turned to go, I remembered that I had one more thing to say.

‘It was Lady Pinkerton who started it and who is keeping it up,’ I told Jane.  ‘Can you—­somehow—­stop her?’

Jane still stared at me, stupidly.  After a moment she half whispered, slowly, ‘I—­don’t—­know.’

I stood looking at her for a second, then I went, without any more words.

All the way home I saw those two white faces staring at me, and heard Jane’s whisper ‘I—­don’t—­know....’

I didn’t know, either.

I only knew, that evening, one thing—­that I hated Jane, who had got Arthur into this mess, and ‘didn’t know’ whether she could get him out of it or not.

And I may as well end what I have got to tell by saying something which may or may not have been apparent to other people, but which, anyhow, it would be Potterish humbug on my part to try to hide.  For the last five years I had cared for Arthur Gideon more than for any one else in the world.  I saw no reason why I shouldn’t, if I liked.  It has never damaged any one but myself.  It has damaged me in two ways—­it has made it sometimes difficult to give my mind to my work, and it has made me, often, rather degradingly jealous of Jane.  However, you would hardly (I hope) notice it, and anyhow it can’t be helped.