And Ethel said, "Well then, he didn't. They aren't. He burnt them. _We_ burnt them.... We could, at least, get rid of _them_!" Then she threw it at her. She had been Hippisley's mistress for three years. When Lena asked for proofs of the incredible assertion she had _her_ letters to show. Oh, it was her moment. She must have been looking out for it, saving up for it, all those years; gloating over her exquisite secret, her return for all the slighting and ignoring. That was what had made her poisonous, the fact that Lena hadn't reckoned with her, hadn't thought her dangerous, hadn't been afraid to leave Hippisley with her, the rich, arrogant contempt in her assumption that Ethel would "do" and her comfortable confidences. It made her amorous and malignant. It stimulated her to the attempt. I think she must have hated Lena more vehemently than she loved Hippisley. She couldn't, _then_, have had much reliance on her power to capture; but her hatred was a perpetual suggestion. Supposing--supposing she were to try and take him? Then she had tried. I daresay she hadn't much difficulty. Hippisley wasn't quite so fine and fastidious as Lena thought him. I've no doubt he liked Ethel's unwholesomeness, just as he had liked the touch of morbidity in Lena. And the spying? That had been all part of the game; his and Ethel's. _They_ played for safety, if you like. They had _had_ to throw Lena off the scent. They used Sybil Fermor and Lady Hermione and Barbara Vining, one after the other, as their _paravents_. Finally they had used Lena. That was their cleverest stroke. It brought them a permanent security. For, you see, Hippisley wasn't going to give up his free quarters, his studio, the dinners and the motor car, if he could help it. Not for Ethel. And Ethel knew it. They insured her, too. Can't you see her, letting herself go in an ecstasy of revenge, winding up with a hysterical youp? "You? You thought it was you? It was me--_me_--ME.... You thought what we meant you to think." Lena still comes and talks to me. To hear her you would suppose that Lawson Young and Dickey Harper never existed, that her passion for Norman Hippisley was the unique, solitary manifestation of her soul. It certainly burnt with the intensest flame. It certainly consumed her. What's left of her's all shrivelled, warped, as she writhed in her fire. Yesterday she said to me, "Roly, I'm _glad_ he's dead. Safe from her clutches." She'll cling for a little while to this last illusion: that he had been reluctant; but I doubt if she really believes it now.