They avoided, for the most part, Carfax's death. Once Margaret Craven said: "One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind seems to me the bravery of the murderer--the bravery I mean that is demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest. To be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it were, with the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary life--that demands courage." "One may accustom oneself to anything," Mrs. Craven said. Her voice was deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in the air. Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might, under certain circumstances, become fanaticism. But he knew that whereas Mrs. Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret Craven quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as though she knew that he was in trouble. He said: "I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any imagination at all, must be his loneliness. I can conceive that the burden of the secret, even though there be no chance whatever of discovery, must make that loneliness intolerable." Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away from the subject. "You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune. I never saw anything like that last try of yours. Whymper was on the touch-line--I saw him. The 'Varsity's certain to try you again on Saturday." "I've been slack too long," Olva said, laughing. "I never enjoyed anything more than this afternoon." "I played the most miserable game I've ever played--couldn't get this beastly thing out of my head." Olva felt as though he were almost at the end of his endurance. At that moment he thought that he would have preferred them to burst the doors and arrest him. He had never known such fatigue. If he could sleep he did not care what happened to him. The rest of the evening seemed a dream. The dark, crowded drawing-room flickered in the light from the crackling fire. Mrs. Craven, in her stiff chair, never moving her eyes, flung shadows on the walls. Some curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert Craven sat moodily in a dark corner. At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First she gave him some modern things--some Debussy, _Les Miroires_ of Ravel, some of the Russian ballet music of _Cleopatre_. These she flung at him, fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of protest from the very notes. "There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was almost indignant at him. "There is your modern stuff--I can give you more of it." "I would like something better now," he said gravely.