"I think you must tell _me_ what you mean," Jane said, and shifted her hold from table to armchair. "Oh, certainly." Milly tossed her head, and Jane's fingers tightened on the chair-back. "Yes, I don't wonder you look ill--I suppose you were sorry when you'd done it. But it's no use being sorry; you should have thought of all that before." "Tell me," said Jane, low. "I'll tell you fast enough. You shall see I do know. Well, then, that story you sent me--you just copied it from a story of Edgar's that was in the old cabinet. He wrote it when he was here; and he said it wasn't good, and I said it was, and then he said he'd leave it in the secret drawer, and see how it looked when he came back. And you found it. And you thought you were very clever, I daresay, and that Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But I knew, and----" "Yes," Jane interrupted, "you said that before. So you think I found Edgar's manuscript? If I did it I must have done it in my sleep. I used to walk in my sleep when I was a child. You believe me, Milly, don't you?" "No," said Milly, "I don't." "Then I'll say nothing more," said Jane with bitter dignity. "I will go at once, and I will try to forgive your cruelty. _I_ would never have doubted _your_ word--never. I am very ill--look at me. I had a sleeping draught, and I suppose it upset me: such things have happened. You've known me eight or nine years: have you ever known me do a dishonourable thing, or tell a lie? The dishonour is in yourself, to believe such things of me." Jane had drawn herself up, and stood, tall and haggard, her dark eyes glowing in their deep sockets. The other woman was daunted. She hesitated, stammered half a word, and was silent. "Good-bye," said Jane; "and I hope to God no one will ever be such a brute to you as you have been to me." She turned, but before she reached the door Milly had caught her by the arm. "No, don't, don't!" she cried. "I _do_ believe you, I do! You poor darling! You must have done it in your sleep. Oh, forgive me, Jane dear. I'll never tell a soul, and Edgar----" "Ah," said Jane, turning mournful eyes on her, "Edgar would have believed in me." And at that Milly understood--in part, at least--and held out her arms. "Oh, you poor dear! and I never even guessed! Oh, forgive me!" and she cried over Jane and kissed her many times. "Oh, my dear!" she said, as Jane yielded herself to the arms and her face to the kisses, "I've got something to tell you. You must be brave." "No--no more," Jane said shrilly; "I can't bear any more. I don't want to know how it happened, or anything. He's dead--that's enough." "But----" Milly clung sobbing to her, sobbing with sympathy and agitation. Jane pushed her back, held her at arm's length and looked at her with eyes that were still dry.