She took up the boot and went back to the stain; almost listlessly she placed the one over the other. Then she gave a little cry; John’s boot fitted no better than Philip’s shoe! She rose unsteadily, her mind in a whirl; she was utterly crushed, humiliated. On what foolish belief in her own cleverness had she been building these fearful ideas about her friends? She had seen something she did not understand and had immediately set to work to paint disloyal and hideous pictures, refusing in her pride of brain to listen to the true promptings of her heart. And now she had finally and conclusively proved her folly to herself. Philip had not been there, nor John. Her abasement at her own self-deceptions did not prevent her from a feeling of relief so great as almost to choke her, but it kept in the back of her consciousness the question which still remained. She put it from her, kept it ignored, and moved away from the fatal spot in a dazed, unthinking condition, content with what she knew and conscious of a great contempt for her powers of investigation. It was only when she had gone some yards that she saw that she was still holding John’s left boot. Who, she thought, could have taken the other one; what was the point when John was innocent? Then she remembered that Humblethorne did not know he was; of course he must have taken it. She wondered where Humblethorne was, becoming aware she had not seen him the whole morning. The boot in her hand and the thought of Humblethorne brought back the recollection of the meeting outside the drawing-room window; she could afford to smile at it now. She would go and look at the window again; in the light of what she knew it would interest her without tempting her to any further frightful theories. She went down and entered the drawing-room and saw to her surprise that the window was now standing open.