“None; oh, none, Merat.”

“It is very strange.”

“Yes, it is very strange, Merat; we might talk of it for hours without getting nearer to the truth.  So Mr. Dean came here?”

“Yes.  When I opened the door he said, ‘Where is mademoiselle?’ and I said, ‘Asleep; she left a note that she was not to be called.’  ’Then, Merat, something must have happened, for she was to meet me at the railway station.  We must see to this at once.’  Her door was locked, but Mr. Dean put his shoulder against it.  In spite of the noise, she did not awake—­a very few more grains would have killed her.”

“Grains of what?”

“Chloral, Sir Owen.  We thought she was dead.  Mr. Dean went for the doctor.  He looked very grave when he saw her; I could see he thought she was dead; but after examining her he said, ’She has a young heart, and will get over it.’”

“So that is your story, Merat?”

“Yes, Sir Owen, that is the story.  There is no doubt about it she tried to kill herself, the doctor says.”

“So, Merat, you think it was for Mr. Dean.  Don’t you know mademoiselle has taken a religious turn?”

“I know it, Sir Owen.”

And he attributed the present misfortune to Monsignor, who had destroyed Evelyn’s mind with ceremonies and sacraments.

“Good God! these people should be prosecuted.”  And he railed against the prelate and against religion, stopping only now and again when Merat went to her mistress’s door, thinking she heard her call.  “You say it was between eleven and twelve she came back?”

“It was after twelve, Sir Owen.”

“Now where could she have been all that time, and in the rain, thinking how she might kill herself?”

“It couldn’t have been anything else, Sir Owen.  Her boots were soaked through as if she had been in the water, not caring where she went.”

Owen wondered if it were possible she had ventured into the Serpentine.

“The park closes at nine, doesn’t it, Sir Owen?” They talked of the possibility of hiding in the park and the keepers not discovering Evelyn in their rounds; it was quite possible for her to have escaped their notice if she hid in the bushes about the Long Water.

“You think, Sir Owen, that she intended to drown herself?”

“I don’t know.  You say her boots were wet through.  Perhaps she went out to buy the chloral—­perhaps she hadn’t enough.”

“Well, Sir Owen, she must have been doubtful if she had enough chloral to kill herself, for this is what I found.”  And the maid took out of her pocket several pairs of garters tied together.

“You think she tied these together so that she might hang herself?”

“There is no place she could hang herself except over the banisters.  I thought that perhaps she feared the garters were not strong enough and she might fall and break her legs.”

“Poor woman!  Poor woman!” So if the garters had proved stronger, she would have strangled there minute by minute.  Nothing but religious mania—­that is what drove her to it.”