Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. She heard them diving after her, and noted their starting eyes as they spied the opened panel. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. She felt the bedsprings coil as he moved from his seated position, entranced. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. The knife is at my breast. Then blackness. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure.
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