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“I’ll tell you fast enough. You shall see I do know. Well, then, that story you sent me—you just copied it from a story of Edgar’s that was in the old cabinet. He wrote it when he was here; and he said it wasn’t good, and I said it was, and then he said he’d leave it in the secret drawer, and see how it looked when he came back. And you found it. And you thought you were very clever, I daresay, and that Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But I knew, and”

“Yes,” Jane interrupted, “you said that before. So you think I found Edgar’s manuscript? If I did it I must have done it in my sleep. I used to walk in my sleep when I was a child. You believe me, Milly, don’t you?”

“No,” said Milly, “I don’t.”

“Then I’ll say nothing more,” said Jane with bitter dignity. “I will go at once, and I will try to forgive your cruelty. I would never have doubted your word—never. I am very ill—look at me. I had a sleeping draught, and I suppose it upset me: such things have happened. You’ve known me eight or nine years: have you ever known me do a dishonourable thing, or tell a lie?