"I did not kill Adrian Fellowes," she said, like a child eager to be absolved from a false imputation. She looked up at him simply, bravely.
"Neither did I," he answered gravely, and the look in his eyes did not change. She noted that.
"I know. It was—"
She paused. What right had she to tell!
"Yes, we both know who did it," he added. "Al'mah told me."
She hid her head in her hands again, while he hung over her wisely waiting and watching.
Presently she raised her head, but her swimming eyes did not seek his. They did not get so high. After one swift glance towards his own, they dropped to where his heart might be, and her voice trembled as she said:
"Long ago Alice Tynemouth said I ought to marry a man who would master me. She said I needed a heavy hand over me—and the shackles on my wrists."
She had forgotten that these phrases were her own; that she had used them concerning herself the night before the tragedy.
"I think she was right," she added. "I had never been mastered, and I was all childish wilfulness and vanity. I was never worth while. You took me too seriously, and vanity did the rest."