“We talked,” said Harry. “That was all.”

“What do you mean, ‘talked’? You know she was deaf and dumb.”

They were staring at each other, in the ultimate contest of wills. Total evil brushed him fleetingly, and then drew back, waiting to see what he would do.

“Esther could see and hear,” he said.

“You must be crazy.”

“We both know that she could.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I talked to her.”

“You dreamed it.”

“When she told you that I knew, you killed her.”

There was not a movement in Mrs Bannister’s face, save the curving of her grim lips as she spoke.

“You are out of your mind.”

He summoned all his strength, all his failing enterprise, for a last assessment. “You must have come back here, found my handkerchief, talked to Esther, realized that the story was going to break, and killed her.”

There was still no movement in the bloodless, inhuman face. “I don’t know why I’m listening to this – this raving,” said Mrs Bannister. “But if you want to know – if it’s any good explaining – if you’re not mad, or drunk, or covering up for yourself – when I came back here, Esther was already asleep. I didn’t suspect she had taken those pills. Why should I? They were ones I kept for when she had really bad spells, migraine. She was only allowed one … The handkerchief was lying on the bed. I left her as she was. She was dead this morning.”

The silence between them lengthened intolerably. Each had used their weapons, and Mrs Bannister’s were carrying the day. Harry suddenly realized the reason for his approaching defeat; it was that Mrs Bannister had had a margin of at least seven hours to figure out all these angles – and probably many others he hadn’t even thought of yet … In one fearful corner of his brain, he even knew that she might be telling a conceivable aspect of the truth. Esther could not have taken the wrong pills because of her blindness, but it could still have been an accident – she had been so overwrought, so confused. Or it could have been suicide – if, on reflection, Esther had found that she could not face the world with her story.

But whatever was the truth, he knew already that he would penetrate no farther, and must retreat now in shame and rout. Even his story was no good any more – he could prove nothing, effect nothing, change nothing. There was a dead girl called Esther Costello, whom all the world loved. What use to blacken her name, without evidence of any sort? There was Mrs Bannister, whom all the world knew as a saint and ministering friend. What good to bring these insane charges, when he would run into a blank wall almost before he started?

Work it out, sap, he told himself, wearily, finally. Add it all up. She’s dead, and the evidence is dead with her. There’s no story any more. There’s no nothing. The only thing out of tune is that Mrs Bannister has no grief in her face – and that will be taken care of, by this afternoon at the latest … Work it all out, and quit. Quit now. You don’t even want to see Esther. She isn’t there any more. Death’s arms have her, like you said to yourself.