Then I started, because some one in the farther shadows of the room drew a long, quivering breath and said 'Oh,' on a soft, long-drawn note. Looking round, I saw Clare Potter. She had just got up from a chair, and was standing clutching its back with one hand, looking pale and sick, as if she was going to faint.
I hadn't, of course, known Clare was there, or I wouldn't have said anything. But I was rather irritated; after all, it wasn't her business, and I thought it rather absurd the way she kept up her attitude of not being able to bear to hear Oliver Hobart's death mentioned.
I got up to go. After all, I had nothing more to say. I didn't want to stop and pry, only to let Jane know.
But as I turned to go, I remembered that I had one more thing to say.
'It was Lady Pinkerton who started it and who is keeping it up,' I told
Jane. 'Can you—somehow—stop her?'
Jane still stared at me, stupidly. After a moment she half whispered, slowly, 'I—don't—know.'
I stood looking at her for a second, then I went, without any more words.
All the way home I saw those two white faces staring at me, and heard
Jane's whisper 'I—don't—know….'
I didn't know, either.
I only knew, that evening, one thing—that I hated Jane, who had got Arthur into this mess, and 'didn't know' whether she could get him out of it or not.