Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations.

She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind—never and impossibly unkind—but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions....

"Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?"

"Who?"

"Your friend—'Clare'—Miss——?"

"Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?"

"I should have thought—suicide—bad for the school's reputation?"

"Then you think it was—that—too? It was supposed to be an accident."

"How do you mean, 'supposed'?"

"There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge—she had not been well—she must have felt faint—and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful—for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself—after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only—I—of course—I knew. Some of them guessed—Clare—and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it—and I knew. But nobody said anything—nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me—what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But I know——"

"What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?"

"She did—she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along—I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise—this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out—she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that—it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are—they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it."

Roger's face was expressive—but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly.

"It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else—and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love."

Roger made an inarticulate remark.

"Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently.

"I see." He was carefully expressionless.

"And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness—besides—she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see——Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt—I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to—but Louise talked to me sometimes—I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable—and Clare was angry with her—and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody—I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see—I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either—you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge.

He nodded.

"Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy—don't you think?"

"You want to think so?" He considered her curiously.

"It mitigates it."

"That she killed herself?"

"It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe——?"

"No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit—but go on."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now—— There were signs——?"

"Of insanity? No. But she was—exaggerated—too intelligent—too babyish—too brilliant—too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.—sheer overwork—just before."

"I see. Was she ambitious?"

"Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing."

"Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern.

"Oh, no!"

"You're sure?"

"Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything."

He smiled a little.

"How old is your friend?"

She looked surprised.

"Oh—thirty-three—thirty-four—thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for—for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?"

"I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?"

"Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting——"

"Was she?" He was frowning interestedly.

"I'm sure she must have been—it was brilliant, you know."

"She said so?"

"Oh, not actually—but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her—and then ten minutes later——" She shuddered.

"Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly.

"It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction.

"My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings—or you've something to go on?"

She shook her head with a frightened look at him.

"No!" she said hurriedly. "No!"

"Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?"

She averted her eyes.

"I wasn't—I mean—I was nervous, of course."

"You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago."

"Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully.

He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves.

He smiled at her pleasantly.

"Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not."

She subsided at this.

"I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you."

She hesitated, her older self once more supervening.

"Afterwards—when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away—after that ghastly afternoon was over——" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know—so many people—crowding and gaping—I dream of all those crowded faces——"

"Well?" he urged her forward.

"I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone——"

"She fell from that room?"

"She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door—to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted—a baby told me something about Louise falling—lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant—and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window."

"How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder.

"And when I got the door open—an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below—right under me—on the steps."

She was silent.

"But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?"

"I had to. I was afraid already—recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge—there were great scratches. Then I knew."

She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories.

"I don't understand," he said.

She did not answer.

"Alwynne!" he said urgently.

She looked at him absently.

"Scratches? What are you driving at?"

"Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it."

"But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning.

"You mean—she must have stood on the ledge—to make those marks?"

"Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?"

"Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?"

"I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown—like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know—and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?"

He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone.

"It can't have been easy for you—that week," he said gently.

"Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest—I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny."

"I know," he said.

"And when it was over—I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral—I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold—icy cold—in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again.

"Well?" he prompted.

"I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me—and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee—and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person."

"You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock—and the strain——"

"Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think—her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive—she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it—well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind—but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible—indirectly—for the whole thing——" Her voice quavered.

Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead.

She went on.

"But even then, though I had been neglectful—oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented—and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!"

He shook his head.

"Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure—of your facts!"

"How?"

"I mean—you were the last person to see her?"

"Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea."

"Miss Hartill?"

"Clare would have said——"

"Of course," he said, "she tells you everything."

She nodded, in all good faith—

"Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room."

"Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?"

"Quite. Clare would have told me——"

"Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad—which I don't believe, do you?"

"I want to——"

"But you don't—knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad—something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you."

"But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly.

"I'm not so sure."

"But she said nothing at the inquest, either."

"Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad."

"But Clare's incapable of deceit."

"She might say the same of you."

"But—if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault—all Clare's fault—not mine at all!" she deducted slowly.

"It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her.

"But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time—why not have told me?"

"She might have been afraid—you might have shrunk——"

"From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing."

"Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death."

She flushed.

"You have not the shadow of right to say that."

"I do say it."

She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal.

"Please—won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please—if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare—I'd rather go on being—not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me."

"Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger.