"I pushed the door open briskly. Mrs. Carkeek was not there. But something _was_ there, by the porcelain basin--something which might have sent me scurrying upstairs two steps at a time, but which as a matter of fact held me to the spot. My heart seemed to stand still--so still! And in the stillness I remember setting down the brass candlestick on a tall nest of drawers beside me. "Over the porcelain basin and beneath the water trickling from the tap I saw two hands. "That was all--two small hands, a child's hands. I cannot tell you how they ended. "No: they were not cut off. I saw them quite distinctly: just a pair of small hands and the wrists, and after that--nothing. They were moving briskly--washing themselves clean. I saw the water trickle and splash over them--not _through_ them--but just as it would on real hands. They were the hands of a little girl, too. Oh, yes, I was sure of that at once. Boys and girls wash their hands differently. I can't just tell you what the difference is, but it's unmistakable. "I saw all this before my candle slipped and fell with a crash. I had set it down without looking--for my eyes were fixed on the basin--and had balanced it on the edge of the nest of drawers. After the crash, in the darkness there, with the water running, I suffered some bad moments. Oddly enough, the thought uppermost with me was that I _must_ shut off that tap before escaping. I _had_ to. And after a while I picked up all my courage, so to say, between my teeth, and with a little sob thrust out my hand and did it. Then I fled. "The dawn was close upon me: and as soon as the sky reddened I took my bath, dressed and went downstairs. And there at the pantry door I found Mrs. Carkeek, also dressed, with my candlestick in her hand. "'Ah!' said I, 'you picked it up.' "Our eyes met. Clearly Mrs. Carkeek wished me to begin, and I determined at once to have it out with her. "'And you knew all about it. That's what accounts for your plugging up the cistern.' "'You saw? . . .' she began. "'Yes, yes. And you must tell me all about it--never mind how bad. Is--is it--murder?' "'Law bless you, miss, whatever put such horrors in your head?' "'She was washing her hands.' "'Ah, so she does, poor dear! But--murder! And dear little Miss Margaret, that wouldn't go to hurt a fly!' "'Miss Margaret?' "'Eh, she died at seven year. Squire Kendall's only daughter; and that's over twenty year ago. I was her nurse, miss, and I know-- diphtheria it was; she took it down in the village.' "'But how do you know it is Margaret?' "'Those hands--why, how could I mistake, that used to be her nurse?' "'But why does she wash them?' "'Well, miss, being always a dainty child--and the house-work, you see--' "I took a long breath. 'Do you mean to tell me that all this tidying and dusting--' I broke off. 'Is it _she_ who has been taking this care of me?' "Mrs. Carkeek met my look steadily. "'Who else, miss?'