The door opened. Mrs Fry stood on the threshold. Her face was grey and brittle as if something had withered it.

‘Dennis! Dennis dear, you’re wanted. They want to have a word with you.’

There were two police officers behind her, and now they came forward.

‘Dennis Fry, I am going to arrest you for the murder of—’

There was a crash of breaking glass. Sitting with her eyes fixed on the teapot, Miss St John disassociated herself with the struggle behind her.

‘I’ll come, I’ll come. I’ll do anything in reason. God rot the whole beastly lot of you! And as for her, sitting there … Well, it’s goodbye, Miss St John!’

Panting, and with blood streaming from his hand, Dennis was led past her.

‘I suppose I can take my hat.’114

Mrs Fry held it out to him.

‘Oh, Dennis, Dennis, it can’t be true! I know it must be some ghastly mistake. I can’t believe such a thing!’

‘More fool you, then,’ he retorted. One of the officers said, as though he were continuing an interrupted sentence, ‘You need not say anything at this stage, but if you do so, it will be taken down and may be given in evidence.’

After they had gone, Miss St John rose softly and nimbly, and closed the door, which had been left open. The little room seemed to be spinning round her, and she must keep its excitement to herself. For she was alive, saved by a miracle. Not only was she not murdered, not only was she still here—but Dennis had been taken away. Nothing remained of him but the sighing wicker chair with its lap spotted with his blood. In step with the spinning room she perambulated round the table, holding a slice of cake in her hand. A phrase swam into her mind: The bread of freedom. A quotation from a biography, no doubt, for it was not the sort of thing that anyone would actually say. She took a bite of cake. A pistol shot cracked out. It was so immediate a sound that it seemed to her she must have been wounded by it. Oh! she exclaimed, with her mouth full. A moment later she exclaimed again. A silly crumb had gone the wrong way. She set herself to cough it up. How tiresome! It was still there. She did not seem able to cough as vigorously as usual, the energy of her coughing only drove the blood into her head. She attempted to beat herself on the back. Her hands, flapping ineffectively, drew no strength from her heavy arms. A swallow of tea would do it. But the cup 115was empty. Well, that could be overcome, she must pour out another cupful. The essential thing was to keep one’s presence of mind. She saw her hand take a lump of sugar and drop it into the cup. That was a waste of time, and silly. But the teapot was there. She had only to lift it, it could not be as heavy as all that. She took a firmer grasp, and raised it. But a dart of anguish ran along her arm, the pot tilted, all that was left of the tea poured on to the tray. The milk-jug was empty, they never gave her enough milk. Oh, she was dying, she would choke to death, unless she could get help! She went on all-fours, trying to vomit. She saw the leg of the table, and in a frantic attempt to attract attention, she pulled at it. The table swayed, and toppled, and very, very slowly the tray fell off with a clatter of crockery. The sugar-basin spun like a foolish top, and came to a standstill under her nose. Beyond the closed door everyone was talking, a noise like waves on shingle, but inside her was an even louder noise, a noise so loud and awful that the tea-things had seemed to fall in silence. And now, but this time in the back of her head, more pistol shots were going off, exploding with black flashes behind her eyes.