THE SACRED FOUNT
"Oh," I returned, "I fear, mostly, I think, to frighten any one. I'm not particularly brave. I haven't, at all events, in spite of my certitude, interrogated Mrs. Server, and I give you my word of honour that I've not had any denial from her to prop up my doubt. It still stands on its own feet, and it was its own battle that, when I came here at your summons, it was prepared to fight. Let me accordingly remind you," I pursued, "in connection with that, of the one sense in which you were, as you a moment ago said, talked over by me. I persuaded you apparently that Long's metamorphosis was not the work of Lady John. I persuaded you of nothing else."
She looked down a little, as if again at a trap. "You persuaded me that it was the work of somebody." Then she held up her head. "It came to the same thing."
If I had credit then for my trap it at least might serve. "The same thing as what?"
"Why, as claiming that it was she."
"Poor May—'claiming'? When I insisted it wasn't!"
Mrs. Brissenden flushed. "You didn't insist it wasn't anybody!"
"Why should I when I didn't believe so? I've left you in no doubt," I indulgently smiled, "of my beliefs. It was somebody—and it still is."
She looked about at the top of the room. "The mistake's now yours."
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