He held the attention much less than one had thought a dead man could.

“God,” said Poppy, “this is a copper’s business.  I’m off before they come.  They think I know something about a thing that happened down in Strood last Easter, though God help me I don’t.  They kind of mixed me up with someone else.  Let me go.”

“Right,” said Richard, and put his hand into his pocket and brought out a fistful of coins.  “Take this.  Good luck.”

She snatched it, and with no further look at any of the company, ran out by the French window.

They stood looking down on Roger.  Death revealed no significance in him.  The smallness of his head, the indefinite colour of his hair, palliated what had occurred and made them feel incredulous of their knowledge that presently much importance would be attached to it.

Richard breathed a deep sigh of relief.  “Well, it’s all cleared up now,” he murmured.  “It is as if she had never seen Peacey....”

Ellen broke into sobs. “’Tis I who made you do it.  I thought of my poor mother and how she’d suffered through not making my father think of her first and last—­and you were sitting there thinking of nothing but Marion—­and I knew if you heard what Roger was saying about us you’d think of me, so I made you listen.  If I hadn’t given you yon dunts on your shoulders you never would have heard him and never would have killed him.  Oh, my love, what I have done to you, and me that would have died rather than hurt you!  But I saw my mother plain—­”

“Oh, between our mothers ...” he said wearily, and hushed her in his arms.  Bitterly he broke out:  “If we could have lived our own lives!”

“My love, my love, don’t spoil our little time together....”

“But there’s nothing left.”

“There’s nothing left, Richard, so go on kissing me.”

“Wait.”  He drew away from her and held up his forefinger.  “There’s something still.”

He looked, Ellen thought, very like Marion as he stood there, his eyes roving about her face.  Because his shoulders were bowed his body looked thick like a tree-trunk; his swarthiness had the darkness of earth in it and the gold of ripe corn; and his gaze lay like a yoke on its object.

“There’s something still,” he whispered.  A sudden joy flamed in him.

There came over him another aspect of Marion.  He looked awkward and contemptuous, as she had done when she had told Ellen how in Richard’s infancy she had been obliged to be nice to people whom she did not like for the sake of a placid social atmosphere.  He muttered, “I’ll go to the kitchen ... tell the servants that Roger’s fallen asleep ... they’re not to disturb him....  That’ll ... give us time....”

At the door he turned.

“You’re not afraid?” He pointed to the dead man.