She looked up at me with a sudden flashing in her eyes.
“I know all. I know that I didn’t do it. Aren’t you glad?”
“I never supposed you had a finger in the matter.”
“That is strange. Appearances were all against me; you knew not what I was, or anything at all. I came into your room in—in a most disreputable way, with an impotent tale—which was none at all. My cloak was wet with blood. You have it now.”
“I had it.”
“You must have suspected me of at least some sort of hand in it; it would have been only natural.”
“To me it seems that it would have been most unnatural.”
“That’s odd. I believe I’m suspected by all sorts of people; by some of the very worst. And you never doubted me at all?” She breathed a little quickly as if she sighed. “I am glad. So long as you know that it was not a murderess who came through your window like a thief, I do not seem to care what others think, which is absurd. For I had no hand in it, nor had you; nor had Mr. Lawrence’s brother.”
“But—who then?”
“That, as yet, I can’t quite see. There was something strange about it; something like a conjuring trick, which I am not sure that I understood, even at the time. It was all done by some dreadful creature, the mere horror of whose presence drove me from my senses. I can’t think what it can have been.”