“What do you mean?” Jane asked the question mechanically, and not at all because she did not know the answer.
“You know what I mean,” the other answered, still with white fury. “I’ve found you out. You thought you were safe, and Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But as it happens I knew; and so shall everybody else.”
Jane moistened dry lips, and said: “Knew what?” and held on by the table.
“You didn’t think he’d told me about it, did you?” Milly flashed—“but he did.”
“I think you must tell me what you mean,” Jane said, and shifted her hold from table to armchair.
“Oh, certainly.” Milly tossed her head, and Jane’s fingers tightened on the chair-back. “Yes, I don’t wonder you look ill—I suppose you were sorry when you’d done it. But it’s no use being sorry; you should have thought of all that before.”
“Tell me,” said Jane, low.
“I’ll tell you fast enough. You shall see I do know. Well, then, that story you sent me—you just copied it from a story of Edgar’s that was in the old cabinet. He wrote it when he was here; and he said it wasn’t good, and I said it was, and then he said he’d leave it in the secret drawer, and see how it looked when he came back. And you found it. And you thought you were very clever, I daresay, and that Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But I knew, and——”
“Yes,” Jane interrupted, “you said that before. So you think I found Edgar’s manuscript? If I did it I must have done it in my sleep. I used to walk in my sleep when I was a child. You believe me, Milly, don’t you?”
“No,” said Milly, “I don’t.”