‘ “Even when it is powerless?”

‘ “I don’t quite understand.”

‘ “It’s difficult to explain; but one might do something that is considered definitely wrong—that is considered a crime, even, for a good and sufficient reason.”

‘I replied drily that possibly several criminals had thought that in their time, and she shrank back.

‘ “But that’s horrible,” she murmured. “Horrible.”

‘And then with a change of tone she asked me to give her something to make her sleep. She had not been able to sleep properly since—she hesitated—since that terrible shock.

‘ “You’re sure it is that? There is nothing worrying you? Nothing on your mind?”

‘ “On my mind? What should be on my mind?”

‘She spoke fiercely and suspiciously.

‘ “Worry is a cause of sleeplessness sometimes,” I said lightly.

‘She seemed to brood for a moment.

‘ “Do you mean worrying over the future, or worrying over the past, which can’t be altered?”

‘ “Either.”

‘ “Only it wouldn’t be any good worrying over the past. You couldn’t bring back—Oh! what’s the use! One mustn’t think. One must not think.”

‘I prescribed her a mild sleeping draught and made my adieu. As I went away I wondered not a little over the words she had spoken. “You couldn’t bring back—” What? Or who?

‘I think that last interview prepared me in a way for what was to come. I didn’t expect it, of course, but when it happened, I wasn’t surprised. Because, you see, Mary Barton struck me all along as a conscientious woman—not a weak sinner, but a woman with convictions, who would act up to them, and who would not relent as long as she still believed in them. I fancied that in the last conversation we had she was beginning to doubt her own convictions. I know her words suggested to me that she was feeling the first faint beginnings of that terrible soul-searcher—remorse.

‘The thing happened in Cornwall, in a small watering-place, rather deserted at that season of the year. It must have been—let me see—late March. I read about it in the papers. A lady had been staying at a small hotel there—a Miss Barton. She had been very odd and peculiar in her manner. That had been noticed by all. At night she would walk up and down her room, muttering to herself, and not allowing the people on either side of her to sleep. She had called on the vicar one day and had told him that she had a communication of the gravest importance to make to him. She had, she said, committed a crime. Then, instead of proceeding, she had stood up abruptly and said she would call another day. The vicar put her down as being slightly mental, and did not take her self-accusation seriously.

‘The very next morning she was found to be missing from her room. A note was left addressed to the coroner. It ran as follows:

‘I tried to speak to the vicar yesterday, to confess all, but was not allowed. She would not let me. I can make amends only one way—a life for a life; and my life must go the same way as hers did. I, too, must drown in the deep sea. I believed I was justified. I see now that that was not so. If I desire Amy’s forgiveness I must go to her. Let no one be blamed for my death—Mary Barton.