As the last notes of the clock in Outer Court striking five died away Rupert Craven came in. If he had seemed tired and worn-out before, now the overwhelming impression that he gave was of an unhappiness from which he seemed to have no outlet. He was young enough to be tormented by the determination to do the right thing; he was young enough to give his whole devotion to his sister; he was young enough to admire, against all determination, Olva's presence and prowess and silence; he was young enough to be haunted, night and day, by the terrors of his imagination; he was young enough to be amazed at finding the world a place of Life and Death; he was young enough finally to be staggered that he personally should be drawn into the struggle. But now, just now, as he stood in the doorway, he was simply tired, tired out. He pulled himself together with the obvious intention of being cold and fierce and judicial. He had cornered Dune at last, he had driven him to confession, he was a fine fellow, a kind of Fate, the Supreme Judge . . . this is what he doubtless desired to feel; but he wished that Dune had not played so wonderful a game that afternoon, that Dune did not now--at this moment of complete disaster and ruin--look so strangely happy, that he were himself not so utterly wretched and conscious of his own failure to do anything as it ought to be done. He did his best; he refused to sit down, he remained as still as possible, he looked over Dune's head in order to avoid those shining eyes. The eyes caught him. "Craven, why have you been badgering the wretched Bunning?" "I thought you asked me to come here to tell me something--I didn't come to answer questions." "We'll come to my part of it in a moment. But I think it's only fair to answer me first." "What have you got to do with Bunning?" "That's not, immediately, the point. The thing I want to know is, why you should have chosen, during the last week, to go and torment the hapless Bunning until you've all but driven him out of his wits." "I don't see what it's got to do with you." "It's got this much to do with me--that he came to me this morning with a story so absurd that it proves that he can't be altogether right in his head. He told me that he had confided this absurd story to you." There was no answer. "I don't suppose," Olva went on at last gently, "that we've either of us got very much time, and there's a great deal to be done, so let's go straight to it. Bunning told me this morning that he declared to you yesterday that he--of all people in the world--had murdered Carfax." "Yes," at last Craven sullenly muttered, "he told me that." "And of course you didn't believe it?" "I didn't believe that _he'd_ done it--no. But he knows who _did_ do it. He's got all the details. Some one has told him." Craven was trembling. Olva pushed a chair towards him. "Look here, you'd better sit down." Craven sat down.