"Craven said scarcely anything. He asked me whether I realized what I was saying, whether I saw what I was in for? I said 'Yes'---that it had all been too much for my conscience, that I had to tell some one---all the things that you told me. Then he asked me why I'd done it. I told him because Carfax always bullied me---he did, you know---and that one day I couldn't stand it any longer and I met him in the wood and hit him. He said, 'You must be very strong,' and of course I'm not, you know, and that ought to have made me suspect something. But it didn't. . . . Then he said he must think over what he ought to do, but all the time he was saying it I knew he was thinking of something else and then he went away." "That was yesterday morning?" "Yesterday morning, and all day I was terrified, but happy too. I thought I'd done a big thing and I thought that the police would come and carry me off. . . . Nothing happened all day. I sat there waiting. And I thought of you---that you'd be able to marry Miss Craven and would be very happy. "Then, this morning, coming from chapel, Craven stopped me. I thought he was going to tell me that he'd thought it his duty to give me away. He would, you know. But it wasn't that. "All he said was: 'I wonder how you know so much about it, Bunning.' I couldn't say anything. Then he said, 'I'm going to ask Dune.' That was all . . . all," he wretchedly repeated, and then, with a movement of utter despair, flung his head into his hands, and cried. Olva, standing straight with his hands at his side, looked through his window at the world---at the white lights on the lower sky, at the pearl grey roofs and the little cutting of dim white street and the high grey college wall. He was to begin again, it seemed, at the state in which he'd been on the day after Carfax's murder. Then he had been sure that arrest would only be a question of hours and he had resolutely faced it with the resolve that he would drain all the life, all the vigour, all the fun from the minutes that remained to him. Now he had come back to that. Craven would give him away, perhaps . . . he would, at any rate, drive him away from Margaret. But he would almost certainly feel it his duty to expose him. He would feel that that would end the complication with his sister once and for all---the easiest way. He would feel it his duty---these people and their duty! Well, at least he would have his game of football first---no one could take his afternoon away from him. Margaret would be there to watch him and he would play! Oh! he would play as he had never played in his life before! Bunning's voice came to him from a great distance--- "What are you going to do? What are you going to say to Craven?" "Say to him? Why, I shall tell him, of course---tell him everything."