“Because I had read that bit of the letter. He said they knew.”

“How could they know?”

Margaret looked up and then down again. Charles’ face was like a flint, all the features sharpened, the brows a black line.

“I’m afraid Freddy must have told them.”

“Go on,” said Charles in an expressionless voice.

Margaret hurried a little.

“He was afraid of them. He had been afraid of them for so many years he did not seem to have any will of his own. He told me the only thing I could do was to join them.”

“So you joined them.” His tone was quite polite and casual. It touched some secret spring of pride in Margaret; for the first time a little warmth came over her, a spark of the old fire showed in her eyes.

“I said what you would have said-what anyone would have said. I told him to be a man and stick it out. And he said it would kill Mother. I think we talked nearly all night. He told me some things I can’t tell you. They could have sent him to prison-he said they would if I refused to join. And he said it would kill Mother.” Margaret lifted her eyes to that hard face above her. They were very desolate, very tired; but the fire still burned. “It would have killed her- you won’t deny that-it would certainly have killed her.”

Charles did not speak.

“In the end I gave way. Freddy said it would be a form, just to make them feel safe. He had the statement all ready for me to sign.” Her lip lifted for an instant in the ghost of a smile. “I signed the statement, but I would not take any oath. I told Freddy it was no good-I wouldn’t do it; but if they would be satisfied with knowing they could ruin me if I talked, I’d give them that. I think I confessed to pilfering jewellery when I went out to dances. There were some of my friends’ names in the statement. It was frightfully cleverly done-the things really had been lost, and I could very easily have taken them. That frightened me afterwards, because I saw how clever they were. I saw how difficult it was for Freddy.” She stopped. There was a dead silence.

When it had lasted an unbearable time, Charles said, still in that easy voice:

“Aren’t you going to go on?”

Margaret started a little. The cold and the silence had closed in upon her.

“There isn’t anything more.”

“I should have thought there was.”

“I’ve told you.” Her voice was very tired.

“You haven’t told me why you broke off our engagement.”

“How could I go on with it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“How could I? I’d got into this awful tangle. I couldn’t let Freddy down. Even if I’d refused to join, it would have come to the same in the end for-for us-if there had been a scandal, if Freddy-I couldn’t have married you-could I? I couldn’t have dragged you into it. I couldn’t marry you when I knew there might be some awful smash one day. I looked every way, and there wasn’t any way out.” Her voice trembled into passion. “Do you think I wouldn’t have found a way out if there had been one to find? There wasn’t any way out. There wasn’t anything I could do to save-us.” The last words faltered.

Margaret bent her head upon her hands. She was colder than she had ever been in her life. If only Charles would not hate her so! Nothing hurt her any more-she was too cold for that; but all the strength went out of her before this implacable resentment, and though everything in her failed, she had still to go on to the end. If he would understand a little and forgive! He did not love her any more; he was falling in love with Margot Standing. Why need he go on hating her so much?

“Thank you. It comes to this-you sacrificed yourself- me-everything, because Freddy had played the fool.” His tone was coldly amused.

Margaret did not answer. “I must confess I thought I’d been cut out by something a little more romantic than Freddy.” He paused, laughed, and repeated, “Freddy! Good Lord! Freddy!” Then, quite suddenly, a violent passion came into his voice. “By heaven! I’ll never forgive you!” he said, and went out of the room and out of the flat.

CHAPTER XXXI

At eight o’clock next morning Charles Moray, calm and cheerful, rang the bell of the flat. It may be said that he was the last person in the world whom Margaret expected to see. He greeted her without any sign of embarrassment.

“Morning, Margaret-thought I’d catch you before you went off. I suppose Greta isn’t up. You might just tell her to hurry and pack anything she’s got-no, she hasn’t got anything-has she? But perhaps you won’t mind lending her what she wants for a day or two.”

“You’re taking her away?”

It was dark in the tiny passage. The early morning cold chilled everything. He could not see her face; she was just a black shadow. A chink of light showed through the unfastened sitting-room door.

“Yes-I thought I’d better let you know before you went off.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“D’you know, I hadn’t thought of telling you that,” said Charles. He had one thought only-to strike hard, to strike deep, to break her pride.

Margaret had no pride left to break; it was all broken, and her heart too. She made no answer, only turned away from him into the sitting-room.

He came in after her and shut the door. His manner changed.

“Will you tell me that it is safe for you to know where she is? Will you tell me that? Is it safe?”

Margaret faced him, and faced the light. She could do that.

Words that he had not planned rushed to Charles’ lips:

“Who pushed her yesterday? She said she was pushed. You heard her. I want to know who pushed her.”

A curious faint tremor touched Margaret. It made a change in the pale set of her mouth; it altered her. It was as if something horrible had touched her for an instant.

“Who pushed her?” said Charles in a low, hard voice.

The tremor came again. This time the horror was in her eyes.

“It wasn’t-no-Charles-no!”

“What are you saying?”

“He was the other side of me,” said Margaret in a shaken whisper.

“I didn’t mean Freddy,” said Charles. Then, as he said the name, he almost laughed, “Freddy!”

“Who did you mean? Charles-it was an accident. You don’t think it was anything else?”

“It would have been a very convenient accident. I’m going to tell you something. Perhaps you know it already. I told you once before that I watched a meeting of this society of yours. I heard them speaking about Margot. Grey Mask said that if a certain certificate were found she would have to be removed. He said a street accident would be the safest way. Last night Greta-Margot-babbled at dinner about having found a certificate. Less than three hours later the street accident happened. It didn’t quite come off-I don’t know why.”

“Ask her why.”

“No-I’ll ask you-you must have seen what happened.”

“She slipped.”

“Why did she slip?”

The horror touched her eyes again.

“I don’t know. Charles-I don’t know.”

“I do. She slipped because she was made to slip, because she was pushed. I want to know who pushed her.”

She met his eyes.

“Did you think I knew?”

Charles did know what he had thought. He had endured a horrible nightmare in which anything was possible, an hour in which everything had gone adrift in a mad storm of evil. He was not sure of what he had thought in that hour. He looked at Margaret, and woke up.

The relief was so overwhelming that it carried him away. He did not know that his face was changed. But his mood had changed so much that he did not care where it was taking him. He said,

“You didn’t see anything then?” And as Margaret shook her head, he went on, his voice fallen to a tone of confidence. “You see what it means-they know where she is-they know where to find her. Look at the attempt to get her away last night. And then this accident. You see what it means?”