She lifted her head from my shoulder, and made an effort to release her hand.  “Oh, why go back to it!” she said.  “Why go back to it!”

“I will tell you why, Rachel.  You are the victim, and I am the victim, of some monstrous delusion which has worn the mask of truth.  If we look at what happened on the night of your birthday together, we may end in understanding each other yet.”

Her head dropped back on my shoulder.  The tears gathered in her eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks.  “Oh!” she said, “have I never had that hope?  Have I not tried to see it, as you are trying now?”

“You have tried by yourself,” I answered.  “You have not tried with me to help you.”

Those words seemed to awaken in her something of the hope which I felt myself when I uttered them.  She replied to my questions with more than docility—­she exerted her intelligence; she willingly opened her whole mind to me.

“Let us begin,” I said, “with what happened after we had wished each other good night.  Did you go to bed? or did you sit up?”

“I went to bed.”

“Did you notice the time?  Was it late?”

“Not very.  About twelve o’clock, I think.”

“Did you fall asleep?”

“No.  I couldn’t sleep that night.”

“You were restless?”

“I was thinking of you.”

The answer almost unmanned me.  Something in the tone, even more than in the words, went straight to my heart.  It was only after pausing a little first that I was able to go on.

“Had you any light in your room?” I asked.

“None—­until I got up again, and lit my candle.”

“How long was that, after you had gone to bed?”

“About an hour after, I think.  About one o’clock.”

“Did you leave your bedroom?”

“I was going to leave it.  I had put on my dressing-gown; and I was going into my sitting-room to get a book——­”

“Had you opened your bedroom door?”

“I had just opened it.”

“But you had not gone into the sitting-room?”

“No—­I was stopped from going into it.”

“What stopped you?

“I saw a light, under the door; and I heard footsteps approaching it.”

“Were you frightened?”

“Not then.  I knew my poor mother was a bad sleeper; and I remembered that she had tried hard, that evening, to persuade me to let her take charge of my Diamond.  She was unreasonably anxious about it, as I thought; and I fancied she was coming to me to see if I was in bed, and to speak to me about the Diamond again, if she found that I was up.”

“What did you do?”

“I blew out my candle, so that she might think I was in bed.  I was unreasonable, on my side—­I was determined to keep my Diamond in the place of my own choosing.”

“After blowing out the candle, did you go back to bed?”

“I had no time to go back.  At the moment when I blew the candle out, the sitting-room door opened, and I saw——­”