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even”—Mary's eyes
widened—“he might even be arrested—and tried—and I could n't
bear it.” The hand that rested on the chair began to tremble very much.
“I could n't bear it,” said Mary piteously.
    “Mary, my dear,” said David, “this is a business matter, and you
must n't interfere—I can't possibly sign the certificate. Poor old Mr.
Mottisfont did not die a natural death, and the matter will have to be
inquired into. No innocent person need have anything to be afraid of.”
    “Oh!” said Mary. Her breath came hard. “You have n't told any
one—not yet? You have n't written? Oh, am I too late? Have you told
people already?”
    “No.” said David, “not yet, but I must.”
    The tears came with a rush to Mary's eyes, and began to roll down
her cheeks.
    “No, no, David, no,” she said. Her left hand went out towards him
gropingly. “Oh, no, David, you must n't. You have n't thought—indeed
you have n't. Innocent people can't always prove that they are
innocent. They can't. There 's a book—a dreadful book. I 've
just been reading it. There was a man who was quite, quite innocent—as
innocent as Edward—and he could n't prove it. And they were going to
hang him—David!”
    Mary's voice broke off with a sort of jerk. Her face became suddenly
ghastly. There was an extremity of terror in every sharpened feature.
Elizabeth stood quite straight and still by the window. She was all in
shadow, her brown dress lost against the soft brown gloom of the
half-drawn velvet curtain. She felt like a shadow herself as she looked
and listened. The numbness was upon her still. She was conscious as it
were of a black cloud that overshadowed them all—herself, Mary,
Edward. But not David. David stood just beyond, and Mary was trying to
hold him and to draw him into the blackness. Something in Elizabeth's
deadened consciousness kept saying over and over again: “Not David, not
David.” Elizabeth saw the black cloud with a strange internal vision.
With her bodily eyes she watched David's face. She saw it harden when
Mary looked at him, and quiver with pain when she looked away. She saw
his hand go out and touch Mary's hand, and she heard him say:
    “Mary, I can't. Don't ask me.”
    Mary put her other hand suddenly on David's wrist. A bright colour
flamed into her cheeks.
    “David, you used to be fond of me—once—not long ago. You said you
would do anything for me. Anything in the world. You said you loved me.
And you said that nowadays a man did not get the opportunity of showing
a woman what he would do for her. You wanted to do something for me
then, and I had nothing to ask you. Are n't you fond of me any more,
David? Won't you do anything for me now?—now that I ask you?”
    David pulled his hand roughly from her grasp. He pushed past her,
and crossed the room.
    “Mary, you don't know what you are asking me,” he said in a tone of
sharp exasperation. “You don't know what you are talking about. You
don't seem to realize that you are asking me to become an accessory
after the fact in a case of murder.”
    Mary shuddered. The word was like a blow. She spoke in a hurried
whispering way.
    “But Edward—it 's for Edward. What will happen to Edward? And to
me? Don't you care? We 've only been married six months. It 's such a
little time. Don't you care at all? I never knew such dreadful things
could happen—not to one's self. You read things in papers, and you
never think—you never, never think that a thing like that could happen
to yourself. I suppose those people don't all die, but I should die.
Oh, David, are n't you going to help us?”
    She spoke the last words as a child might have spoken them. Her eyes
were fixed appealingly upon David's face. Mary Mottisfont had very
beautiful eyes. They were hazel in colour, and in shape and expression
they resembled those of another Mary, who was also Queen of Hearts.
    Elizabeth Chantrey became suddenly aware