“And did you do it, Annie?”

She was holding the hand in a firm but gentle clasp. This time there was no jerk. It closed a little upon hers and was still. Annie looked at her and said,

“Oh, no, miss. I’ve wished myself dead many’s the time- but not him.”

“But you went to the watersplash the night that he was drowned?”

Annie took a heavy sobbing breath.

“I’ve gone there most nights lately come closing time-to see if he was coming home. Sometimes he’d come-and sometimes he wouldn’t. Then I’d know he’d gone off to that girl.”

“You went every night?”

“Mostly. Mr. Edward could have told them that-if he’d a mind. There’s a two or three times he’s gone by me-walking quick-coming back from Mr. Barr’s he’d be-and he’d go past me and say good-night. He might have spoke of it-but he wouldn’t want to get me into trouble.”

After the loneliness, the coldness, and the dark secret on her heart, Annie was feeling a quite extraordinary sense of relief. There was an easing of her whole mind and body. The words which had come with so much effort now flowed like water. In some strange unreasoning way she recognized the presence of kindness and authority and responded to them.

Miss Silver held her hand and said gently,

“Then you went down to the splash on the night your husband was drowned-”

Annie repeated the words in an uncertain voice.

“I-went-down-”

“What time was it?”

“It was-getting on-for ten-”

“Did you see Mr. Edward Random?”

“He’d gone past me-just before I come to the splash.”

“Where was he when you came to it?”

“He was going up the slope-and William was coming down. They said a word or two, and I heard him call out, ‘Goodnight, Willy.’ They’d known each other from boys.”

“What happened after that?”

“I went back-up the other side of the rise. I didn’t want William-to see me. I waited to hear him-come over the splash-” She gave a sudden violent shudder. “But he never.”

“Why?”

The answer came in a shaking whisper.

“He was done in-”

“By whom?”

Annie’s eyes met hers in a fixed stare. The flow of words had stopped. Fear had come down and cut them off like the closing of a dam.

“Annie, what did you see, or hear?”

She just stared.

“Did you go down to the splash again?”

“When-he-didn’t come-” The stumbling answer was so faint that it was hardly to be heard.

“And then?”

“He-came-”

“Yes, Annie?”

She pulled away her hand with great suddenness.

“I went away home. Do you think I wanted him to catch me? I ran most part of the way. I see them come down the rise, and I ran for it.”

Miss Silver picked out a single word and presented it with gravity.

“Them?”

The breath caught in Annie’s throat.

“What do you think I’m going to say-that there was someone coming down there after him? It was dark, wasn’t it? How could I see in the dark? And if I could, what do you think I’m going to do-put up my word against them that would set their hand on the Bible and swear they saw me push William in? And stand by and see me hanged-and never lose a good night’s sleep over it neither! Who’s going to credit my word against them that would do that? Not if I was to take my Bible oath that I ran home the fastest I could go!”

“Why did you do that?”

Annie was sobbing, a hand at her throat. Her words came out between the sobs.

“I thought-he’d have-my life. He was drunk-and he was angry. I could hear him-talking-to himself. ‘I’ll get it out of him!’ he said-and a lot of bad words-and, ‘I’ll be even with him!’ And I didn’t wait to hear no more-I took and ran.”

There was a pause. Faint steady light in the room, and a soft air coming in from the mild November night. Miss Silver said,

“Someone was following your husband?”

There was a slight movement of the bruised head.

“Who was it?”

Annie caught her breath painfully.

“It-was-dark-”

“Shall I tell you who it was?”

The sobs ceased. The troubled breathing ceased. Everything seemed to wait and listen.

Miss Silver leaned forward and spoke a name.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Susan went up to the Hall in the morning. It was difficult to go, but it would have been difficult to stay. They had come to a point where there was no easy path. If the police had made up their minds to arrest Edward, they would do it whether Susan Wayne was there or not. And he would hate it more if she was there. It was all that she could do to walk away up the drive and not look back. He meant to go over and see Mr. Barr, but not until later. He would give the police their chance before he went. And every step away from him felt like a long, hard mile. Older and stronger than logic was the instinct which has survived from the beginnings of the race. Nothing will go wrong if I am there. But out of sight what enemies, what pitfalls, what ambushes? Stay where you can cover the creature you love, if need be with your own shrinking flesh. It is when he is alone that the evil thing may creep up close and strike.

Susan did not formulate these things, but they were there under the reasoned thought which told her that the best way to help Edward was to go about her business as if this was just a day like any other day. She would come back at one, and Edward would be there-unless Mr. Barr had kept him.

Doris had lighted a fire in the library. Susan had not really thought about it before, but the sight of the blazing logs reminded her that it was colder. She stood to warm her hands for a minute before putting on her overall and getting down to the eighteenth-century books. She had reached the uppermost shelves by now, which meant climbing almost to the top of the ladder.

She was half way up, when the door opened and Arnold Random came in. As she answered his “Good-morning,” she thought how ill he looked. He went over to the fire and stood there with his back to her, warming himself. After waiting a little to see whether he would speak she went up the remaining steps and began her work.

The first book she took out was a volume of her great-grandfather’s sermons with a long-winded and ornate dedication to Edward Random Esquire. That would be Edward’s great-grandfather. The sermons were long, and appeared to be quite intolerably dull. The parish had doubtless been obliged to listen to them week by week, but she wondered whether anyone had ever had the urge to read them in print. Great-grandpapa had certainly been born in the eighteenth century, though only in its last decade, and she was trying to make up her mind whether to leave him there or to transfer him to the early nineteenth century, when Arnold spoke from the hearth.

“You are getting on.”

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid it must seem a bit slow-”

“Not at all-I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering-”

“Yes, Mr. Random?”

He stooped down to put a log on the fire and said with a sudden fretfulness,

“It’s very cold this morning-really very cold indeed. You must keep up a good fire.”

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him shiver. He went on speaking.

“Dreadfully cold. What was I saying?”

“You were wondering-”

“Yes, it was about my brother’s prayer-book. It was mislaid after his death, and I thought perhaps it had got pushed into one of these shelves. He used this room a good deal, you know. I wondered whether you had come across the book. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before-I just thought-”

He had both hands on the edge of the wide mantelshelf, gripping it. The knuckles stood up white. She could not see his face. She said, “No, I haven’t come across it. I will let you know at once if I do,” and reached up to put her great-grandfather back upon the shelf.

Arnold Random straightened up and went out of the room.