"Look here, old man, I don't know what's the matter with you, but it's plain enough that you've got this Carfax business on your nerves--drop it. It does no good--it's the worst thing in the world to brood about. Carfax is dead--if I could help you to find his murderer I would--but I can't." Craven's whole body was trembling under Olva's hand. Olva moved back to his chair. "Craven, listen to me. You _must_ listen to me." Then, speaking very slowly he brought out-"I _have_ a right to speak to you--a great right. I wish to marry your sister." Craven started up from his chair. "No, no," he cried. "You! Never, so long as I can prevent it." "You have no right to say that," Olva answered him sternly, "until you have given me your reasons. I don't know that she cares a pin about me--I don't suppose that she does. But she will. I'm going to do my very best to marry her." Craven broke away to the middle of the room. His body was shaking with passion and he flung out his hand as though to ward off Olva from him. "You to marry my sister! My God, I will prevent it--I will tell her--" He caught himself up suddenly. "What will you tell her?" Then Craven collapsed. He stood there, rocking on his feet, his hands covering his face. "It's all too awful," he moaned. "It's all too awful." For a wonderful moment Olva felt that he was about to tell Craven everything. A flood of words rose to his lips--he seemed, for an instant, to be rising with a great joyous freedom, as did Christian when he had dropped his burden, to a new honesty, a high deliverance. Then he remembered Margaret Craven. "You take my advice, Craven, and get your nerves straight. They're in a shocking condition." Craven went to the door and turned. "You can tell nothing?" "Nothing." "I will never rest until I know who murdered Carfax." He closed the door behind him and was gone. CHAPTER XI FIFTH OF NOVEMBER 1 That attempt to make Craven speak his mind was Olva's last plunge into the open. He saw now, with a clarity that was like the sudden lifting of some blind before a lighted window, that he had been beguiled, betrayed. He had thought that his confession to Bunning would stay the pursuit. He saw now that it was the Pursuer Himself who had instigated it. With that confession the grey shadow had drawn nearer, had made one degree more certain the ultimate capitulation. For Bunning was surely the last person to be told--with every hour that became clearer. There were now about four weeks before the end of term. The Dublin match was to be on the first Tuesday of December, two days before every one went down, and between the two dates--this 5th of November and that 2nd of December--the position must be held. . . .