Jasmine gave a little cry which she smothered with her hand; and she drew back involuntarily towards the light of the hallway.  The smell of disinfectants almost suffocated her.  A cloud of mystery and indefinable horror seemed to envelop her; then a light flooded through her brain.  It was like a stream of fire.  But with a voice strangely calm, she said, “You mean Adrian Fellowes?”

Al’mah’s face was in the shadow, but her voice was full of storm.  “You took him from me, but you were only one,” she said sharply and painfully.  “I found it out at last.  I suspected first at Glencader.  Then at last I knew.  It was an angry, contemptuous letter from you.  I had opened it.  I understood.  When everything was clear, when there was no doubt, when I knew he had tried to hurt little Jigger’s sister, when he had made up his mind to go abroad, then, I killed him.  Then—­I killed him.”

Jasmine’s cheek was white as Al’mah’s apron; but she did not shrink.  She came a step nearer, and peered into Al’mah’s face, as though to read her inmost mind, as though to see if what she said was really true.  She saw not a quiver of agitation, not the faintest horror of memory; only the reflective look of accomplished purpose.

“You—­are you insane?” Jasmine exclaimed in a whisper.  “Do you know what you have said?”

Al’mah smoothed her apron softly.  “Perfectly.  I do not think I am insane.  I seem not to be.  One cannot do insane things here.  This is the place of the iron rule.  Here we cure madness—­the madness of war and other madnesses.”

“You had loved him, yet you killed him!”

“You would have killed him though you did not love him.  Yes, of course—­I know that.  Your love was better placed; but it was like a little bird caught by the hawk in the upper air—­its flight was only a little one before the hawk found it.  Yes, you would have killed Adrian, as I did if you had had the courage.  You wanted to do it, but I did it.  Do you remember when I sang for you on the evening of that day he died?  I sang, ‘More Was Lost at Mohacksfield.’  As soon as I saw your face that evening I felt you knew all.  You had been to his rooms and found him dead.  I was sure of that.  You remember how La Tosca killed Scarpia?  You remember how she felt?  I felt so—­just like that.  I never hesitated.  I knew what I wanted to do, and I did it.”

“How did you kill him?” Jasmine asked in that matter-of-fact way which comes at those times when the senses are numbed by tragedy.

“You remember the needle—­Mr. Mappin’s needle?  I knew Adrian had it.  He showed it to me.  He could not keep the secret.  He was too weak.  The needle was in his pocket-book—­to kill me with some day perhaps.  He certainly had not the courage to kill himself....  I went to see him.  He was dressing.  The pocket-book lay on the table.  As I said, he had showed it to me.  While he was busy I abstracted the needle.  He talked of his journey abroad.  He lied—­nothing