you, because there are some things I couldn’t write—even to you. You can go back to the station in the cab, I’ve told the man to wait. And I hope I shall never see your face again.”
“What do you mean?” Jane asked the question mechanically, and not at all because she did not know the answer.
“You know what I mean,” the other answered, still with white fury. “I’ve found you out. You thought you were safe, and Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But as it happens I knew; and so shall everybody else.”
Jane moistened dry lips, and said: “Knew what?” and held on by the table.
“You didn’t think he’d told me about it, did you?” Milly flashed—“but he did.”
“I think you must tell me what you mean,” Jane said, and shifted her hold from table to armchair.
“Oh, certainly.” Milly tossed her head, and Jane’s fingers tightened on the chair-back. “Yes, I don’t wonder you look ill—I suppose you were sorry when you’d done it. But it’s no use being sorry; you should have thought of all that before.”
“Tell me,” said Jane, low.
