“I’ve just been with mother and she began by asking me if I had had any answer to my telegram. I couldn’t tell her I hadn’t sent one—I didn’t, you know—so I simply answered, no. And then she said it was very odd that we hadn’t heard from him and went on about it worrying so that I didn’t know what to do. And so I told her—I didn’t mean to, but I suppose I let out a hint and she seized on it and made me tell her.” “Tell her what?” “About, about,” Celia caught her friend’s glance and faint colour came into her white cheeks as she hesitated and stuck in the sentence she was on the point of uttering; then summoning up a little determination, she said doggedly, “about his having troubles of his own, how he really wasn’t rich and happy now as I had always let her suppose, and how Margaret was ill and all; I said I couldn’t worry him to come now. She was very upset as I was afraid she would be.” Celia stopped and then resumed. “She agreed, though, at last about not urging him to come; I promised to write and send him some money and tell him she said he was to bring Margaret as soon as she is better and able to come here too. She said of course they must regard this as home now. But——” again she stopped and this time did not say any more, but remained plucking nervously at a cushion-cover with down-cast eyes. “Celia,” said Evelyn gently after waiting a moment in hope she would go on of her own accord. “Yes,” replied Celia, neither looking up nor desisting from her restless movements. “Won’t you tell me everything?” “That’s all; I came away then,” answered Celia, speaking quickly in a weak defiance of fear and not looking up. “I mean, about John. Why did he come here two nights ago?” Celia went suddenly white to the lips: her eyes widened slowly in intense distress, and she breathed in a low, strained voice, “You know!” “Yes, I have known since yesterday. You can tell me, Celia; you must tell me so that I can help him and you.” “Does any one else know?” A fearful anxiety was in her question. “No one knows as much as I do. The others who know think he killed Sir Roger. I know he didn’t.” The effect of this simple assertion was startling. Celia stretched out her hand to Evelyn, her breath coming in quick, short gasps, and cried with half-incredulous joy, “Evie! do you know what you are saying?” “Yes. I can prove he didn’t, too, but it will be much easier if you tell me what he did do. Why he came and everything you know. It’s not like us to have secrets from each other.”