I + 

Up in his little, low-ceilinged, oak-panelled sitting-room in the Bear and Key, Anthony sat the girl in the one armchair. She refused whisky so pleadingly that he ordered tea. When it had come and the bearer departed, he sat on the table and watched her drink. + 

“Now,” he said, “suppose you tell me all about it,” and was immediately smitten with very fragrant memories of another occasion when he had used that phrase. + 

Dora Masterson said simply: “I was frightened. Oh, so horribly, horribly frightened!” + 

Anthony was puzzled. “But why just now? Surely you must have felt like this as soon as you heard?” + 

“N-no. Of course it was⁠—terrible! But Lucia told me what you said, Mr. Gethryn⁠—and she⁠—she seemed to so absolutely believe that you would make everything all right that I⁠—I tried to believe too.” + 

Anthony’s heart gave a leap that startled him. + 

The girl went on, struggling for control. “But⁠—but it was when I heard about the end of the inquest⁠—that he was actually in⁠—Oh, it’s too awful! It’s too terrible!” She swayed about in the big chair, hands hiding her face, the slim shoulders twisting as if her pain were bodily. + 

Again was Anthony puzzled. Something in the tone told him that here was something he had not heard of. And this tendency to hysteria must be stopped. + 

“What d’you mean? Explain!” he said sharply. + 

She sat upright at that, her face working. “I mean that⁠—that⁠—if only I hadn’t been a senseless, vicious little fool; if⁠—if only I hadn’t be-behaved like a b-beastly schoolgirl, Archie wouldn’t⁠—wouldn’t be in that awful place! Oh! why was I ever born!” She pressed her hands to her face and doubled up in the chair until her forehead rested on her knees. + 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand yet,” said Anthony. + 

She raised her head. “Weren’t you at the inquest?” she asked, dabbing at her swollen eyes with the back of a hand like the schoolgirl she had named herself. + 

“Not exactly,” said Anthony, and wondered how many more times he would have to answer this question. + 

“Why, then you⁠—you don’t know that⁠—that Archie s-said he went out for a walk during the time when the⁠—the Thing must have been done. And the beasts d-don’t believe him because nobody at all saw him while he was out!” + 

“I still don’t⁠—” + 

She broke in on his sentence with a flood of speech, springing to her feet. + 

“Oh, you fool, you fool!” she cried. “I ought to have seen him! I, I, I! I was to have met him down there on the bank, this side, by the bridge. We’d arranged a walk! And then because I thought I was someone; because I thought he had been rude to me that afternoon, I must needs think I would punish him! And I didn’t go! I didn’t meet him! I stayed at home! Christ help me, I stayed at home!” + 

Anthony was shocked into sympathy. “My dear chap,” he said. “My dear chap!” He went to her and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “You poor child!” + 

Wearily, she sank against him. The reddish-golden head fell on his shoulder. But she made no sound. She was past tears. + 

For a moment they stood thus, while he patted the slim shoulder. Then she drew herself upright and away from him. + 

“You must sit down,” he said. + 

She looked up at him. “Please forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to⁠—to make such a fool of myself. And I was very rude.” She sat down. + 

Anthony waved aside apology. “What we’ve got to do,” he said, smiling down at her, “is to do something.” + 

“Yes, yes, I know. But what, what? Oh, you said I could help, but I believe you only did it out of kindness. But if I could really help⁠—how much less⁠—less filthy I should feel!” + 

Anthony conceived a liking for this girl; a liking born not altogether of sympathy. But he wondered, with half-humorous desperation, how he was to provide the cleanser and yet not waste much time. + 

“Consoler-in-Chief to the Birds of the Air, I am,” he said to himself; then aloud: “You can help, Miss Masterson, by listening to me think. In this business, I’m like a mad poet without hands or tongue. I mean, I’ve found out more than the other fellows⁠—the police⁠—but it’s all odds and ends and tangles⁠—little things, queer in themselves, that men would tell me might be found anywhere if one only troubled to look for ’em. But I say they’re not; that they fit!” + 

The girl was sitting upright now, alert, gazing at him intently. “Think, then,” she whispered. + 

“Now for it,” thought Anthony, “and God send it’ll take her in⁠—and quickly.” + 

Aloud, he began: “Reconcile for me⁠—put these things into order and make ’em mean something⁠—if you can. Innocent fingerprints on a weapon which performed a murder. An innocent person⁠—not the one of the fingerprints⁠—stealing letters from the corpse to hide the fact that the corpse had a mistress. An attempt to make a clock give an alibi, the attempt being so clumsily carried out that it seems very ill in accord with other indications of the murderer’s ingenuity. Secret drawer in corpse’s desk full of newspaper-cuttings, all of ’em vicious attacks on corpse when alive. Fingerprints⁠—” + 

“Mr. Gethryn!” the girl interrupted harshly; “you’re making fun of me! No, that’s not fair; you’re just playing with me to make me think I can help. No doubt you mean to be kind⁠—but I hate it!” + 

Anthony for once was crestfallen. The truth of the accusation was so complete as to make an answer impossible. He found himself in the indefensible position of one “who means well.” He groped wildly for words, but was saved; for, suddenly, Dora sprang to her feet. + 

“Those cuttings!” she cried. “Did you mean⁠—do you really want to know anything about them?” + 

Anthony was surprised. “Most certainly I do. I don’t know exactly what I want to know, but that means I want to know everything.” + 

“Well, go and see Jim⁠—my brother⁠—now, at once!” She stamped her foot at him in her excitement. “When he was secretary to Mr. Hoode he was full of those attacks in the press. I remember we thought he was rather silly about them. He used to say there was something more than mere⁠—what did he call it?⁠—policy behind them, and swore he’d make Mr. Hoode take notice of them. I think it was what they eventually quarreled about, but I’m not sure, because he’d never tell me. He wouldn’t even tell Loo⁠—my sister. But if you want to know anything about those papers, Mr. Gethryn, Jimmie’s more likely to be able to tell you than anyone else!” + 

Anthony looked at her and said: “The best apology I can make to you is to go up to town now. Your brother ought to be well enough by this time. He’s got to be!” He paused; then added with a smile: “You know you wouldn’t have found me out if I’d been less preoccupied. I’m a bit tired, too.” + 

Dora, forgetting herself, looked at him closely. “Why⁠—why, you look almost ill!” she cried, “p’r’aps you⁠—oughtn’t to go tonight.” + 

“Oh, I’m going right enough,” Anthony said; “and now. And I’m not ill; that’s only my interesting pallor. You must go home⁠—and don’t worry.” + 

She cried: “How can I help worrying? Worrying till I wish I’d never been born! Unless there’s a miracle⁠—” + 

“Chesterton once wrote,” Anthony interrupted her, “that ‘the most wonderful thing about miracles is that they sometimes happen.’ And he’s a great and wise man.” + 

The girl flashed a tremulous smile at him and passed out of the door. + 