For many minutes after making this discovery Evelyn remained staring at the ominous mark: then she turned and went straight to her room; she felt appalled, terrified at the abysses of human nature into which she had unwittingly forced her way. Once again she wished with all her heart that she had never been curious enough to try and penetrate the mystery; she had been drawn on from one darkness to another, and yet she had not been able to leave it alone. Nor could she now; she was impelled against her desire to turn conviction into undeniable certainty. Remembering that the first thing Humblethorne had done on coming on the footmarks outside the drawing-room window had been to secure the measurements, she took a pair of scissors and a piece of drawer-paper and, returning to the mark below the statuette, carefully cut out a pattern. Then she went back to her room. What her purpose was she hardly knew; she did not know what she would do when she had established conviction on an unbreakable chain of reason, but while any possibility of error remained her bitterness of spirit gave her no rest. She looked at the cutting in her hand and shivered at the significance which so simple a thing contained. Then she wondered if she dared go immediately to compare it with its original; but she did not know for certain that Philip was still in the study, and she saw no way of finding out without revealing the horror in her soul. She stood turning the pattern over and over purposelessly; then she thrust it into a drawer as if it burnt her; she would go and get a measuring tape, anything to feed her craving for action. With this intention she went into the room she shared with Celia and was rummaging in a work-basket when her friend came in. “Why, Evelyn,” said Celia, “I didn’t know where you were: you have neglected me this morning!” “Have I, dear?” replied Evelyn in so vague a tone that it was obvious that the remark had not penetrated in the least. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling any better?” asked Celia with sympathetic surprise: she was not used to such replies. “What’s that? Better? Oh, I’m all right,” said Evelyn, trying to force her thoughts away and speak naturally. She put the work-basket down, closed it and then looked across at Celia. “And how are you this morning?” she added. “You seem a little more rested, but why that worried look?” “Oh, Evie, it’s about—well, what we spoke of yesterday,” responded Celia, half eagerly from desire to share and half fearfully from memory of their difference of view. “About, well, John, you know.” Her voice in saying the name quivered and stumbled. “Yes?” asked Evelyn with a quick glance.