om 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.

And I may as well end what I have got to tell by saying something which
may or may not have been apparent to other people, but which, anyhow, it
would be Potterish humbug on my part to try to hide. For the last five
years I had cared for Arthur Gideon more than for any one else in the
world. I saw no reason why I shouldn't, if I liked. It has never damaged
any one but myself. It has damaged me in two ways--it has made it
sometimes difficult to give my mind to my work, and it has made me,
often, rather degradingly jealous of Jane. However, you would hardly (I
hope) notice it, and anyhow it can't be helped.

PART V:

TOLD BY JUKE (IN HIS PRIVATE JOURNAL)

GIVING ADVICE

1

It is always rather amusing dining at Aylesbury House, with my
stimulating family. Especially since Chloe, my present stepmother,
entered it, three years ago. Chloe is great fun; much more entertaining
than most variety artists. I know plenty of these, because Wycombe, my
eldest brother, introduces them to me. As a class they seem pleasant and
good-humoured, but a little crude, and lacking in the subtler forms of
wit or understanding. After an hour or so of their company I w