What was that? That creaking stair? Justin? Not Justin?... Her feet had already carried her to the door, but at that sound she slipped back into her chair, white, speechless, waiting. But it was only the maid, restoring a waste-paper basket. She was instantly Miss Valentine, controlled, smiling. “Thank you, Mary. Oh, Mary, is Mr. Justin in?” The maid thought so, Miss—had seen him crossing the lawn just now: and so departed, shutting the door, fastening the cage, upon a trapped creature. No escape now!... The maid had seen her, sitting in Justin’s room.... No chance of an alibi.... Besides, Justin might come up at any moment now.... She sat a long while, waiting for him to come. She was asked once—how long? an hour? half an hour? ten minutes? She said painfully——She didn’t know. A long while. But if you consider that Justin had appointed twelve o’clock, that he was a punctual man, and that he came in at last mopping his forehead and complaining of the noon heat, it cannot have been long. Half an hour, perhaps? Yet she had sat so still that when he came her cramped limbs at first refused to stir, and she stayed where she was, helplessly, staring at him, till he, missing the greeting and the bustle that was his due, turned to her with a vague notion that something must be wrong. “Why, Laura, what’s up?” And then, “My dear girl, you do look white! But this heat’s enough to knock up any one.” And so disposed of his concern and turned to his prepared table, while she sought for an answer and found none upon her lips save the forgotten, petulant retort of her childhood. “I’m—not—your dear girl!” But there was neither petulance nor childishness in her voice as she said it, rather an intonation of such hopelessness, such despair, that Justin must have guessed at worse trouble than the heat, had he not been talking too fast on his own account to catch a word. “Now then—let’s get to work. But the eggs? Where’s the box of eggs? Why, Laura, you’ve cleared away the eggs! Did you sort them? I never told you to. Did you put them in the cabinet?” She shook her head. “Where then?” Still she did not speak. She was making the discovery that she had lost control of her voice, of the muscles of her throat. She swallowed once or twice. She said, her will said, two and three and four times, “They are broken. I broke them,” but she made no sound at all. The sensation was a horrible one. It confirmed, with its physical reality, the paralysis of her spirit. Justin, watching her, guessed distortedly at the truth. “There’s been an accident?” You could not say that she shook her head, but she moved it stiffly, once, a very little. “Laura? Not smashed?” His face was tragic. “Not smashed, Laura? How many? Which ones? Not the whole lot?” Again she opened and shut her mouth. He was at the cabinet. “Where’s the key? What have you done with the key?” And then, with palpable effort—“Don’t be scared, Laura. I know you couldn’t help it. But what happened?”