And still the pale woman in white sat as motionless as the stricken girl at her feet--as if she had not been an actor, but a figure in a _tableau_. “Policeman,” said Barton, “I give that woman in charge for an attempt at murder. Take her to the station.” “I don’t like the looks of her,” whispered the policeman. “I’d better get her knife from her first, sir.” “Be quick, whatever you do, and have the house cleared. I can’t look after the wounded girl in this crowd.” Thus addressed, the policeman stole round toward the seated woman, whose eyes had never deigned, all this time, to stray from the body of her victim. Barton stealthily drew near, outflanking her on the other side. They were just within arm’s reach of the murderess when she leaped with incredible suddenness to her feet, and stood for one moment erect and lovely as a statue, her fair locks lying about her shoulders. Then she raised her right hand; the knife flashed and dropped like lightning into her breast, and she, too, fell beside the body of the girl whom she had stricken. “By George, she’s gone!” cried the policeman. Barton pushed past him, and laid his hand on the woman’s heart. She stirred once, was violently shaken with the agony of death, and so passed away, carrying into silence her secret and her story. Mr. Cranley’s hopes had been, at least partially, fulfilled. “Drink, I suppose, as usual. A rummy start!” remarked the policeman, sententiously; and then, while Barton was sounding and stanching the wound of the housekeeper’s victim, and applying such styptics as he had within reach, the guardian of social order succeeded in clearing __The Bunhouse__ of its patrons, in closing the door, and in sending a message (by the direction of the girl who had summoned Barton, and who seemed not devoid of sense) to Mrs. St. John Deloraine. While that lady was being expected, the girl, who now took a kind of subordinate lead, was employed by Barton in helping to carry Margaret to her own room, and in generally restoring order. When the messenger arrived at Mrs. St John Delo-raine’s house with Barton’s brief note, and with his own curt statement that “murder was being done at _The Bun-house_,” he found the Lady Superior rehearsing for a play. Mrs. St. John Deloraine was going to give a drawing-room representation of “Nitouche,” and the terrible news found her in one of the costumes of the heroine. With a very brief explanation (variously misunderstood by her guests and fellow-amateurs) Mrs. St. John Deloraine hurried off, “just as she was,” and astonished Barton (who had never seen her before) by arriving at _The Bunhouse_ as a rather conventional shepherdess, in pink and gray, rouged, and with a fluffy flaxen wig. The versatility with which Mrs. St. John Deloraine made the best of all worlds occasionally let her into _inconsequences_ of this description.