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“Tie up her hand somehow,” said Baxter. “Don’t let it drip about the place. She”–he stepped on broken glass in his slippers, “she must have smashed a pane.”

Miss Mary lurched towards the open window again, dropped on her knees, her head on the sill, and lay quiet, surrendering the cut hand to me.

“What did she do?” Baxter turned towards Miss Elizabeth in the far bed.

“She was going to throw herself out of the window,” was the answer. “I stopped her, and sent Arthurs for you. Oh, we can never hold up our heads again!”

Miss Mary writhed and fought for breath. Baxter found a shawl which he threw over her shoulders.

“Nonsense!” said he. “That isn’t like Mary;” but his face worked when he said it.

“You wouldn’t believe about Aggie, John. Perhaps you will now!” said Miss Elizabeth. “I saw her do it, and she’s cut her throat too!”

“She hasn’t,” I said. “It’s only her hand.”

Miss Mary suddenly broke from us with an indescribable grunt, flew, rather than ran, to her sister’s bed, and there shook her as one furious schoolgirl would shake another.

“No such thing,” she croaked. “How dare you think so, you wicked little fool?”

“Get into bed, Mary,” said Baxter. “You’ll catch a chill.”

She obeyed, but sat up with the grey shawl round her lean shoulders, glaring at her sister. “I’m better now,” she panted. ” Arthurs let me sit out too long. Where’s Arthurs? The kettle.”

“Never mind Arthurs,” said Baxter. “You get the kettle.” I hastened to bring it from the side table. “Now, Mary, as God sees you, tell me what you’ve done.”

His lips were dry, and he could not moisten. them with his tongue.

Miss Mary applied herself to the mouth of the kettle, and between indraws of steam said: “The spasm came on just now, while I was asleep. I was nearly choking to death. So I went to the window I’ve done it often before, without, waking any one. Bessie’s such an old maid about draughts. I tell you I was choking to death. I couldn’t manage the catch, and I nearly fell out. That window opens too low. I cut my hand trying to save myself. Who has tied it up in this filthy handkerchief? I wish you had had my throat, Bessie. I never was nearer dying!” She scowled on us all impartially, while her sister sobbed.

From the bottom of the bed we heard a quivering voice: “Is she dead? Have they took her away? Oh, I never could bear the sight o’ blood!”

“Arthurs,” said Miss Mary, “you are an hireling. Go away!”

It is my belief that Arthurs crawled out on all fours, but I was busy picking up broken glass from the carpet.

Then Baxter, seated by the side of the bed, began to cross-examine in a voice I scarcely recognised. No one could for an instant have doubted the genuine rage of Miss Mary against her sister, her cousin, or her maid; and that a doctor should have been called in for she did me the honour of calling me doctor–was the last drop. She was choking with her throat; had rushed to the window for air; had near pitched out, and in catching at the window bars had cut her hand. Over and over she made this clear to the intent Baxter. Then she turned on her sister and tongue-lashed her savagely.

“You mustn’t blame me,” Miss Bessie faltered at last. “You know what we think of night and day.”.

“I’m coming to that,” said Baxter. “Listen to me. What you did, Mary, misled four people into thinking you–you meant to do away with yourself.”

“Isn’t one suicide in the family enough? Oh God, help and pity us! You couldn’t have believed that!” she cried.

“The evidence was complete. Now, don’t you think,” Baxter’s finger wagged under her nose–“can’t you think that poor Aggie did the same thing at Holmescroft when she fell out of the window?”