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It had to go on. We
stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a sight!),
scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes.
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.


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