road her silent concentration led her; but he knew that she pursued an
idea that was compelling and strong. He knew enough of her to know that
even her silence was not the silence that arises out of lack of subject
for talk, but that it meant something as definite and clear as though
she spoke direct words to him.

The Head of the Police would have given much at that moment to have
been able to penetrate her thoughts, but he only stared at her with his
blue eyes a little wider open than usual, and waited for her to speak.
She looked before her steadily, but not with the eyes of a woman who
dreams; Mrs. Wilder was thinking definitely, and while Hartley waited,
her mind travelled at speed across years and came to a halt at the
moment where she now found herself, and from that moment she looked out
forcefully into the future.

Usually, in the tragic instants of life there is very little time for
thought before the need for action forces the will, with relentless
hands. Clarice Wilder knew as well as she knew anything that her
position was one of some peril, and that much more than she could weigh
or measure at that moment lay beyond the next spoken word. She was
telling herself to be careful, steadying her nerve and reining in a
desire to pour out a flood of circumstantial evidence, calculated to
convince the Head of the Police.

If there is one thing more than another that the man or the woman driven
against the ropes should avoid, it is prolixity; the snare that catches
craft in its own net. Clarice Wilder desired to be overpowering,
redundant and extreme in the wordy proof of her innocence of purpose
that evening of July the 29th, but she held back and waited steadfastly
until she was quite sure of herself again, and then she turned her head