I said, 'I suppose she didn't realise till lately that any one was likely to be suspected,' and Jane acquiesced.
'Clare's funny,' she said, after a moment.
'People are,' I generalised.
'She has a muddled mind,' said Jane.
'People often have.'
'You never know,' said Jane thoughtfully, 'how much to believe of what she says.'
'No? I dare say she doesn't quite know herself.'
'She does not,' said Jane. 'Poor old Clare.'
We necessarily left it at that, since Jane didn't, of course, mean to tell me what story Clare had told of that evening's happenings, and I couldn't tell Jane the one Clare had told me. I didn't imagine I should ever be wiser than I was now on the subject, and it certainly wasn't my business any more.
When I met Clare Potter by chance, a week or two later, on the steps of the National Gallery with another girl, she flushed, bowed, and passed me quickly. That was natural enough, after our last interview.