Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal.