Ann stood with her hands on the foot of the bed, motionless.
"Of course I will!" She opened her lips, hesitated, and then dared it. "But you don't think there's any— any-"
Vicky attempted to laugh; but this was clearly painful, for she gave it up.
"No, no, no!" she assured them both. "Nothing like that. But, it's just that I want — company. And I can hardly have Mrs. Propper or Daisy."
She lowered her eyes and plucked at the coverlet.
"You see, Ann, after all I am a murderess."
"Vicky!"
"My dear, it's perfectly true. I'm not going to get hysterical, or try to keep thinking about it. But I did kill poor Arthur, even if I didn't know what I was doing. You can't deny that, can you?"
"No; but you weren't to blame, any more than the dagger itself was to blame. You were just a — a—"
"A thing," Vicky finished for her. "A thing that walked and talked and moved and did what it was told. But, do you know, I hate being a 'thing.' I did kill Arthur. I even had his heart marked for me, with a cross drawn in pencil, so I couldn't miss it. At least, that's what they tell me. 'X marks the spot!' That's what's happened through this whole thing. All drawn and diagrammed for somebody else." Ann spoke quietly.