Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary
fulness of assumed responsibility. I addressed her.

"You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?"

She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly
serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of
his solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was
delicious. And I went on in deferential accents: "Am I to understand
then that you entertain the theory of suicide?"

I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and
alarming aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware
of three trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don't know why.
Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity. There's nothing more solemn
on earth than a dance of trained dogs.

"She has chosen to disappear. That's all."

In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too much
for my endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down
on all-fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite.

"The devil she has," I cried. "Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at
once, anyhow, regardless . . . I've had the privilege of meeting that
reckless and brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an
angry victim . . . "

"Precisely," Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going
off. I stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on to finish my