“I know.  It’s not that.”

“What is it that’s troubling you?”

“Did you see Walter before he came here?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“Was he perfectly well then?”

“Er—­yes—­he was well.  Quite well.”

Anne turned her sorrowful eyes upon him.

“No.  There was something wrong.  What was it?”

“If there was he didn’t tell me.”

“No.  He wouldn’t.  Why did you hesitate just now?”

“Did I hesitate?”

“When I asked you if he was well.”

“I thought you meant did I notice any signs of his illness coming on.  I didn’t.  But of course, as you know, he was very much shaken by—–­by your little girl’s death.”

“You noticed that while I was away?”

“Y-es.  But I certainly noticed it more on the night you were speaking of.”

“You would have said, then, that he must have received a severe shock?”

“Certainly—­certainly I would.”

Hannay responded quite cheerfully in his immense relief.

It was what they were all trying for, to make poor Mrs. Majendie believe that her husband’s illness was to be attributed solely to the shock of the child’s death.

“Do you think that shock could have had anything to do with his illness?”

“Of course I do.  At least, I should say it was indirectly responsible for it.”

She put her hand up to hide her face.  He saw that in some way incomprehensible to him, so far from shielding her, he had struck a blow.

“Dr. Gardner told you that much,” said he.  He felt easier, somehow, in halving the responsibility with Gardner.

“Yes.  He told me that.  But he had not seen him since October.  You saw him on Friday, the day I came home.”

Hannay was confirmed in his suspicion that on Friday there had been a scene.  He now saw that Mrs. Majendie was tortured by the remembrance of her part in it.

“Oh well,” he said consolingly.  “He hadn’t been himself for a long time before that.”

“I know.  I know.  That only makes it worse.”

She wept slowly, silently, then stopped suddenly and held herself in a restraint that was ten times more pitiful to see.  Hannay was unspeakably distressed.

“Perhaps,” said he, “if you could tell me what’s on your mind, I might be able to relieve you.”

She shook her head.

“Come,” he said kindly, “what is it, really?  What do you imagine makes it worse?”

“I said something to him that I didn’t mean.”

“Of course you did,” said Hannay, smiling cheerfully.  “We all say things to each other that we don’t mean.  That wouldn’t hurt him.”

“But it did.  I told him he was responsible for Peggy’s death.  I didn’t know what I was saying.  I let him think he killed her.”

“He wouldn’t think it.”

“He did.  There was nothing else he could think.  If he dies I shall have killed him.”