"Now, Bunning, tell me quickly. They'll be here to lay lunch in a minute. What have you told Craven? And why have you told him anything?"
"I told him—yesterday—that I did it."
"That you did it?"
"Yes, that I murdered Carfax."
"My God! You fool! . . . You fool!"
A most dangerous thing this devotion of a fool.
But, strangely, Olva's words roused in Bunning a kind of protest, so that he pulled his eyes back into their sockets, steadied his hands, held his boots firmly to the floor, and, quite softly, with a little note of urgency in it as though he were pleading before a great court, said—
"Yes, I know. But he drove me to it; Craven did. I thought it was the only way to save you. He's been at me now for days; ever since that time he stopped me in Outer Court and asked me why I was a friend of yours. He's been coming to my room—at night—at all sorts of times—and just sitting there and looking at me."
Olva came across and touched Bunning's arm: "Poor Bunning! What a brute I was to tell you!"
"He used to come and say nothing—just look at me. I couldn't stand it, you know. I'm not a clever man—not at all clever—and I used to try and think of things to talk about, but it always seemed to come back to Carfax—every time."