She sat down, and I waited for her to speak. She wasn't nervous, or embarrassed, as most people are in these interviews. Two things occurred to me about her; one was that she was, in a way, too far through, too mentally agitated, to be embarrassed; the other was that she was, quite unconsciously, posing a little, behaving as the heroine of one of her mother's novels might have behaved. One knows the situation in fiction--the desperate girl appealing out of her misery to the Christian priest for help. So many women have this touch of melodrama, this sense of a situation.... I believed that she was, as she sat there, in these two conditions simultaneously, exactly as I was simultaneously analysing her and wanting to be of what service I could. She leant forward across the vestry table, locking and unlocking her hands. 'This is quite private, isn't it,' she said. 'As private as if...?' 'Quite,' I told her. She drew a long, shivering breath, and leant her forehead on her clasped hands. 'You know,' she said, so low that I had to bend forward to catch it, 'what people are saying--what my people suspect about--about Oliver Hobart's death.' 'Yes, I know.' 'Well--it wasn't Mr. Gideon.' 'You know that?' I said quickly. And a great relief flooded me. I hadn't known, until that moment, because I had driven it under, how large a part of my brain believed that Gideon had perhaps done this thing. 'Yes,' she whispered. 'I know it ... Because I know--I know--who did it.' In that moment I felt that I knew too, and that Gideon knew, and that I ought to have guessed all along. I said nothing, but waited for the girl's next word, if she had a next word to say. It wasn't for me to question her. And then, quite suddenly, she gave a little moan of misery and broke into passionate tears. I waited for a moment, then I got up and poured her out a glass of water. It must have been pretty bad for her. It must have been pretty bad all this time, I thought, knowing this thing about her sister. She drank the water, and became quieter. 'Do you want to tell me any more?' I asked her, presently. 'Oh, I do, I do. But it's so difficult ... I don't know how to tell you.... Oh, God ... It was _I_ that killed him!' 'Yes?' I said, after a moment, gently, and without apparent surprise. One learns in parish work not to start, however much one may be startled. I merely added a legitimate inquiry. 'Why was that?' She gulped. 'I want to tell you everything. I _want_ to.'