'No. But it can be obtained. A charge of slander could be brought against her at any moment. If you prefer libel, it is merely taking a little trouble.'

Sibyl reflected.

'There is no hurry. I will pay you, as I said, for any trustworthy evidence—of any kind. You bring me none.—Does she come to see you?'

'Occasionally.'

'And—have you succeeded in making her pay?' asked Sibyl, with a curl of the lips.

Mrs. Strangeways merely smiled. After a brief pause, Sibyl looked at her watch, and rose.

'I have an engagement. And—pray don't trouble to come again unless you have really something to come for. I can't pretend to have any taste for this kind of conversation. It really matters very little; we know that woman will be caught some day, and I shall have the pleasure of prosecuting her for stealing my jewellery and things. The other person—perhaps she is a little beneath my notice.'

She rang the bell, and Mrs. Strangeways, having no alternative, slightly bent her head and withdrew.

Mrs. Carnaby had no engagement; she was quite at leisure, and, as usual nowadays, spent her leisure in thought. She did not read much, and not at all in the solid books which were to be seen lying about her rooms; but Lady Isobel Barker, and a few other people, admired her devotion to study. Certainly one or two lines had begun to reveal themselves on Sibyl's forehead, which might possibly have come of late reading and memory overstrained; they might also be the record of other experiences. Her beauty was more than ever of the austere type; in regarding her, one could have murmured—

Chaste a' the icicle
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple.

But in privacy Sibyl did not look her best. Assuredly not after the withdrawal of Mrs. Strangeways, when her lips, sneering away their fine contour, grew to an ugly hardness, and her eyes smalled themselves in a vicious intensity of mental vision.

CHAPTER 11

Major Carnaby, Hugh's brother, was now in England. A stranger to the society in which Mrs. Carnaby had lived, he knew nothing of the gossip at one time threatening her with banishment from polite circles. An honest man, and taking for granted the honesty of his kinsfolk, he put entire faith in Hugh's story, despatched to him by letter a few days after the calamitous event at Wimbledon. On arriving in London, the good Major was pleased, touched, flattered by the very warm welcome with which his sister-in-law received him. Hitherto they had seen hardly anything of each other; but since the disaster their correspondence had been frequent, and Sibyl's letters were so brave, yet so pathetic, that Major Carnaby formed the highest opinion of her. She did not pose as an injured woman; she never so much as hinted at the activity of slanderous tongues; she spoke only of Hugh, the dear, kind, noble fellow, whom fate had so cruelly visited The favourable impression was confirmed as soon as they met. The Major found that this beautiful, high-hearted creature had, among her many virtues, a sound capacity for business; no one could have looked after her husband's worldly interests with more assiduity and circumspection. He saw that Hugh had been quite right in assuring him (at Sibyl's instance) that there was no need whatever for him to neglect his military duties and come home at an inconvenient time. Hugh's affairs were in perfect order; all he would have to think about was the recovery of health and mental tranquillity.

To this end, they must decide upon some retreat in which he might pass a quiet month or two. That dear and invaluable friend, to whom Sibyl owed 'more than she could tell' (much more than she could tell to Major Carnaby), was ready with a delightful suggestion. Lady Isobel (that is to say, her auriferous husband, plain Mr. Barker) had a little house in the north, cosy amid moor and mountain, and she freely offered it. There Hugh and his wife might abide in solitude until the sacred Twelfth, when religious observance would call thither a small company of select pilgrims. The offer was gratefully accepted. Major Carnaby saw no reason for hesitating, and agreed with Sibyl that the plan should be withheld from Hugh until the last moment, as a gratifying surprise. By some means, however, on the day before Hugh's release, there appeared in certain newspapers a little paragraph making known to the public this proof of Lady Isabel's friendship for Sibyl and her husband.

'It's just as well,' said Mrs. Carnaby, after appearing vexed for a moment. 'People will be saved the trouble of calling here. But it really is mysterious how the papers get hold of things.'

She was not quite sure that Hugh would approve her arrangement, and the event justified this misgiving. Major Carnaby was to bring his brother to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and, if possible, all were to travel northward that same day. But Hugh, on hearing what was proposed, made strong objection: he refused to accept the hospitality of people quite unknown to him; why, with abundant resources of their own, should they become indebted to strangers? So vehement was his resistance, and so pitiful the state of body and mind which showed itself in his all but hysterical excitement, that Sibyl pretended to abandon the scheme. Today they would remain here, talking quietly; by tomorrow they might have decided what to do.

At ten o'clock next morning, when Sibyl had been up for an hour, Hugh still lay asleep. She went softly into the room, lighted by the sun's yellow glimmer through blind and lace curtains, and stood looking at him, her husband. To him she had given all the love of which she was capable; she had admired him for his strength and his spirit, had liked him as a companion, had prized the flattery of his ardent devotion, his staunch fidelity. To have married him was, of course, a mistake, not easy of explanation in her present mind; she regretted it, but with no bitterness, with no cruel or even unkind thought. His haggard features, branded with the long rage of captivity; his great limbs, wasted to mere bone and muscle, moved her indignant pity. Poor dear old boy!

He believed her; he still believed her. She saw that these two years of misery had made his faith in her something like a religion; he found it his one refuge from despair. 'But for that, Sibyl, I shouldn't be alive now!' She had known self-reproach; now again it touched her slightly, passingly—poor old boy! But unfaithful to him? To call that unfaithfulness? The idea was too foolish.

Her fears were all outlived. She had dared the worst, and daring was grown an easy habit. But in the life that lay before them, her judgment, her ambitions, must prevail and direct. Yesterday she had no course save yielding; today her rule must begin.

Hugh was stirring. He groaned, and threw out one of his arms; muttered, as if angrily. She touched him, and on the instant he awoke.

'Sibyl? Good God! that's a queer thing—I dreamt that yesterday was a dream, and that I had woke up to find myself– Did you ever do that—dream you were dreaming?'

She stroked his head, laughing playfully.

'You've had a good long night. Don't you feel better? Shall I bring you some breakfast here?'

'No; I must get up. What's the time? Miles will be coming.'

Sibyl knew that the Major would not be here until two o'clock; but she said nothing, and left him to dress.

On the breakfast-table were delicacies to tempt his palate, but Hugh turned from them. He ate for a few minutes only, without appetite, and, as on the day before, Sibyl was annoyed by the strange rudeness with which he fed himself; he seemed to have forgotten the habits of refinement at table. Afterwards he lighted a cigar, but soon threw it aside; tobacco made him sick. In the drawing-room he moved aimlessly about, blundering now and then against a piece of furniture, and muttering a curse. The clothes he wore, out of his old wardrobe, hung loose about him; he had a stoop in the shoulders.

'Sibyl, what are we going to do?'

For this she had waited. She sat looking at him with a compassionate smile. It was an odd thing if this poor broken-down man could not be made subservient to her will.

'I still think, dear boy, that we ought to accept Lady Isobel's invitation.'

A nervous paroxysm shook him.

'Damn Lady Isobel! I thought that was done with.'

'I don't think you would speak of her like that, Hugh, if you knew all her kindness to me. I couldn't tell you all yesterday. May I now? Or shall I only irritate you?'

'What is it? Of course, I don't want you to offend her. But I suppose she has common-sense?'

'More than most women. There's no fear of offending her. I have another reason. Come and sit quietly by me, and let us talk as we used to do. Do you know, dear, it's a good thing for me that I had powerful friends; I needed all their help against my enemies.'

'What enemies?'

'Have you forgotten what you yourself said, and felt so strongly, at that time—what a danger I was exposed to when we determined to tell the whole truth? You knew what some people would say.'

'They've said it, no doubt; and what harm has it done you? Tell me a name, and if it's a man–'

'Don't! I can't bear to see that look on your face, Hugh. You could do nothing but endless harm, trying to defend me that way. I have lived it down, thinking of you even more than of myself. There was a time when I almost despaired; people are so glad to think evil. If I had been a weak woman, I should have run away and hidden myself; and then everybody would have said, "I told you so." But I had to think of you, and that gave me strength. What could I do? Truth alone is no good against the world; but truth with a handle to its name and with a million of money—that's a different thing. It was life or death, dear boy, and I had to fight for it. So I went to Lady Isobel Barker. I only knew her by name. She, of course, knew me by name, and cold enough she was when I got admitted to her. But half an hour's talk—and I had won! She was my friend; she would stand by me, and all the world should know it. Stay! The worst is over, but there's still a good deal to be done. It has to be known that my friends are your friends also. There was a paragraph in the papers yesterday, saying that you and your wife were going as Lady Isobel's guests to that house of hers. She did that for me. And now, do you think we ought to seem even seem—to slight her kindness?' Hugh was turning about, chafing impotently.

'Then you mean to go on here?' he asked, with half-appealing, half-resentful eyes.

Sibyl made a gesture of entreaty.

'What other life is there for me? What would you have me do?'

His arms fell; for a minute he sat with head hanging, his eyes fixed and blank like those of a drunken man. Then, as if goaded suddenly–

'Who are these enemies you talk about?'

Sibyl's look wandered; her lips moved in hesitancy.

'Name one of them.'

'Isn't it better to try to forget them?'

'Women, I suppose?—You say you haven't seen Rolfe. Has he heard this talk about you, do you think?'

'No doubt,' she answered distantly. 'Isn't he coming to see you?'

'If he saw that in the papers, he won't think I am here. But I should like to see him. I've a good mind to telegraph—but I don't know his address. Yes—I forgot—there's a letter from him somewhere.'

'I know the address,' said Sibyl, in the same tone of reserve.

'I should like to see old Rolfe—poor old Rolfe.'

'Why do you pity him?'

'Oh—only a way of speaking. You know the address, you say? Has he written? Has she written?'

'Oh no!'

'You haven't seen her?'

Sibyl evaded the question.

'Doesn't it seem to you rather strange,' she said, 'that the Rolfes should keep away from me—never call or write?'

Hugh's lips were set. When she repeated her inquiry more urgently, he gave a peevish answer.

'You cared very little about her at the last. And Rolfe—when a man marries—No, I won't see him just yet. I'll write to him when we're away.'

'It wouldn't astonish you'—Sibyl spoke in a thin voice, not quite under her control—'if you heard that Mrs. Rolfe had done her best and her worst against me?'

'She? Against you?'

'I don't know that it matters. You said "poor Rolfe". I should fancy he is poor, in every sense. As I have said so much, it's better to let you know all; it will show you that I am not exaggerating what I have gone through. People knew, of course, that she had called herself a friend of mine; and just then she came into notice—just enough to give her opportunities of being dangerous. Well, I heard before long that she was slandering me to all her acquaintances. Oh, she knew all about me! It was lucky for me I had a credulous husband. And it still goes on. She came here not long ago; yes, she came. She told me that she knew I was afraid of her, and she threatened me.'

Hugh sat staring like a paralytic.

'She? Rolfe's wife did this?'

'Her motive, I don't know. Pure hatred, it seemed. But I've had a strange fancy. She talked about a woman I used to know very slightly, a Mrs. Strangeways, and seemed to be in fear of her; she said that woman and I were circulating stories about her. And I have wondered—Why are you looking like that?'

'She must be mad.—I'll tell you. I only wish I had told you before. She was there that night—at Redgrave's. But for her it would never have happened. I saw him standing with her, by the window of his room—that is, I saw a woman, but it wasn't light enough to know her; and all at once she ran back, through the open French windows into the house; and then I rushed in and found her there—it was Rolfe's wife.'

'Why did you keep this from me?'

'She implored me—vowed there was nothing wrong—cried and begged. And I thought of Rolfe. I see now that I ought to have told him. The woman must be crazy to have behaved like this to you.'

Sibyl's face shone.

'Now I understand. This explains her. Oh, my dear, foolish husband! After all, you did not tell the whole truth. To spare your friend's feelings, you risked your wife's reputation. And I have been at the mercy of that woman's malice! Don't you think, Hugh, that I have had to bear a little more than I deserved? Your distrust and what came of it—I have long forgiven you all that. But this—wasn't it rather too hard upon me?'

He flinched under her soft reproach.

'I couldn't be sure, Sibyl. Perhaps it was true—perhaps she was only there–'

A flash of scorn from her eyes struck him into silence.

'Perhaps? And perhaps she meant no harm in lying about me! You will send at once for Rolfe and tell him.'

Hugh moved from her, and stood with his face averted.

'Can you hesitate for a moment?' she asked severely

'Why need I tell Rolfe? Send for her, and say what you like. Won't that be enough? It's awful to think of telling Rolfe. Don't ask me do to that, Sibyl.'

He approached her, voice and attitude broken to humility. Sibyl grew only more resolute.

'You must tell him. Don't you owe it me?'

'By God, I can't do that!—I can't do that! Have her here, before us both. Shame her and threaten her as much as you like; but don't tell Rolfe. It's like you and me, Sibyl. Suppose she has really done no wrong, and we put that thought into his mind?'

'Have you lost all your senses?' she exclaimed passionately. 'Must I keep reminding you what she has done to me? Is a woman that will behave in that way likely to be innocent? Is her husband to be kept in the dark about her, deceived, cheated? I can't understand you. If you are too cowardly to do your plain duty—Hugh, how am I talking? You make me forget myself. But you know that it's impossible to spare your friend. It wouldn't be just to him. Here's a form; write the telegram at once.'

'Write it yourself,' he answered, in a low, nerveless voice, moving away again.

It was quickly done, though Sibyl paused to reflect after the first word or two. The message ran thus–

'I want to see you and Mrs. Rolfe before going away. Please both come this evening if possible. If you cannot, reply when.'

Without showing what she had written, she left the room, and despatched a servant to the post-office.

CHAPTER 12

As a last resource against Cecil Morphew's degeneration, Harvey had given up his daily work in Westminster Bridge Road. 'I shall go no more,' he wrote. 'I am quite unable to manage the business alone, and if you won't attend to it, it must smash. But please to remember that I took a share on certain conditions.' For a week he had stayed at home. Morphew did not reply, but the fact that no appeals arrived from the trusty shopman seemed to prove that this last step had been effectual. This morning Rolfe was half-minded to go up to town, but decided that he had better not. Thus the telegram from Oxford and Cambridge Mansions came into his hands at about twelve o'clock.

Alma, after giving Hughie his morning's lesson, had gone out with him for an hour. As soon as she returned, Harvey showed her the message.

'Why does he want both of us to go?' he asked uneasily.

Alma merely shook her head, as if the matter interested her very little, and turned to leave the room again.

'I think I had better go alone,' said Harvey, his eyes on the telegram.

'Just as you like,' answered Alma, and withdrew.

She spent the afternoon much as usual. Rolfe had said at lunch that he would go to Carnaby's immediately after dinner. Mrs. Langland and one of her daughters called; they thought Mrs. Rolfe rather absent-minded, but noticed nothing else. At dinner-time she said carelessly to her husband–

'I think I had better go with you, as I was asked.'

'No, no; I think not.'

'I had rather, Harvey, if you don't mind. I am quite ready; shall only have to put my hat on.'

He made no further objection, but looked a little displeased, and was silent through the meal.

They travelled by rail to Edgware Road, exchanging scarce a word on the way. On the stairs of the Mansions, Alma found the ascent too much for her; she stopped, and put out a hand to support herself. Rolfe looked round.

'Nothing. You have made me walk rather quickly.'

'I'm sorry. Rest a moment.'

But Alma hastened upwards.

They were shown at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Carnaby, who was sitting alone, rose at the announcement of their names. Alma stepped forwards, and seemed about to offer her hand, but she was disregarded. Their hostess stood with her eyes on Rolfe, who, observing the strangeness of this reception, bowed and said nothing.

'It was I who sent the telegram, Mr. Rolfe.' Sibyl's voice had its wonted refinement, and hardly disturbed the silence. 'My husband would have postponed the pleasure of seeing you, but I thought it better you should meet him at once.' Her finger touched an electric bell. 'And I particularly wished Mrs. Rolfe to be with you; I am so glad she was able to come. Pray sit down.'

Harvey, with no thought of accepting this invitation, cast stern glances at the speaker and at his wife.

'What does all this mean, Mrs. Carnaby?'

'Your old friend will tell you.'

The door had opened, and Hugh Carnaby slouched in. At the sight of Alma he stood still. Then meeting Harvey's eyes, he exclaimed, with hoarse indistinctness, 'Rolfe!' Each advanced, and their hands clasped.

'Rolfe!—old fellow!—I'm the most miserable devil on earth.'

Tears were in his eyes and in his voice. He held Harvey's hand tight prisoned in both his own, and stood tottering like a feeble old man. 'Old friend, I can't help myself—don't feel hard against me—I have to tell you something.'

He looked towards Alma, who was motionless. Sibyl had sat down, and watched as at a play, but with no smile.

'Come into the next room with me,' added the choking voice.

'No. Here, if you please, Hugh,' sounded with gentle firmness.

'Sibyl—then tell it. I can't.'

'It's a simple story, Mr. Rolfe,' began Sibyl. 'I am sure you are not aware that Mrs. Rolfe, ever since our great misfortune, has lost no opportunity of slandering me. She has told people, in plain words, that she knew me to be guilty of what my husband was for a moment trapped into suspecting. Among others, she told it to her friend Miss Leach. Not long ago, she went so far as to call upon me here and accuse me to my face, telling me I was afraid of what she knew against me. I have thought of taking legal measures to protect myself; perhaps I shall still do so. Today something has come to my knowledge which possibly explains Mrs. Rolfe's singular malice. My husband tells me—and it's a sad pity he kept it a secret so long—that there was a third person present that evening when he came upon Mr. Redgrave. I dare say you remember the details of the story told in court. All was perfectly true; but my husband should have added that a woman was with Mr. Redgrave, talking alone with him in the dark; and when the blow had been struck, this woman, who had quickly disappeared from the veranda into the house, was found to be Mrs. Rolfe.'

Hugh's hand had fallen on to his friend's shoulder. He spoke as soon as Sibyl ceased.

'She said she had done no wrong. I had no proof of any—no proof whatever.'

Rolfe was looking at Alma. She, through the unimpassioned arraignment, stood with eyes fixed upon her enemy, rather as if lost in thought than listening; her mouth was tortured into a smile, her forehead had the lines of age and misery. At the sound of Hugh's voice, she turned to him, and spoke like one recovering consciousness.

'You have told the truth.'

'Why did you compel me to make this known, Mrs. Rolfe?'

'Oh, that's quite a mistake. It was she who made you tell it—as she will make you do anything, and believe anything, she likes. I can imagine how delighted she was. But it doesn't matter. If you care to know it, either of you'—she included Carnaby and her husband in one glance, as equally remote from her—'I haven't gone about seeking to injure her. Perhaps I let one or two people know what I thought; but they had heard the truth already. It wasn't prudent; and it wasn't a right return for the kindness you had shown me, Mr. Carnaby. But I'm not sure that I should have done better in helping to deceive you. Has she anything more to say? If not, I will leave you to talk about it.'

The tone of this speech, so indifferent that it seemed light-headed, struck the hearers mute. Rolfe, speaking for the first time since Hugh's entrance, said at length, with troubled sternness–

'Alma, you have repeated your charge against Mrs. Carnaby; what grounds have you for it?'

She looked at him with a vague smile, but did not answer.

'Surely you don't make an accusation of this kind without some proof?'

'Harvey!' The cry quivered on a laugh. 'O Harvey! who would know you with that face?'

Sibyl rose. The men exchanged a quick glance. Rolfe moved to his wife's side, and touched her.

'Yes, yes, I know,' she went on, drawing away—'I know what you asked me. Keep quiet, just a little. There are three of you, and it's hard for me alone. It isn't so easy to make you believe things, Harvey. Of course, I knew how it would be if this came out. I can tell you, but not now; some other time, when we are alone. You won't believe me; I always knew I shouldn't be believed. I ought to have been cautious, and have kept friends with her. But it wasn't as if I had anything to hide—anything that mattered. Let me go, and leave you three to talk. And when you come home–'

Turning, looking for the door, she fell softly on to her knees. In a moment Harvey had raised her, and seated her in the chair which Hugh pushed forward. Sibyl, motionless, looked on. Seeing that Alma had not lost consciousness, she awaited her next word.

'We will go away,' said Hugh, under his breath; and he beckoned to Sibyl. Reluctantly she took a step towards him, but was stopped by Alma's voice.

'Don't go on my account. Haven't you any question to ask me? When I go, I shan't be anxious to see you again. Don't look frightened; I know what I am talking about. My head went round for a moment—and no wonder. Stand there, face to face.—Leave me alone, Harvey; I can stand very well. I want her to ask me anything she has to ask. It's her only chance, now. I won't see her again—never after this.'

'Mrs. Carnaby,' said Rolfe, 'there must be an end of it. You had better ask Alma what she has against you.'

Sibyl, summoning all her cold dignity, stood before the half-distraught woman, and looked her in the eyes.

'What harm or wrong have I done you, Mrs. Rolfe, that you hate me so?'

'None that I know of, until you brought me here today.'

'But you have said that you think me no better than a guilty hypocrite, and isn't it natural that I should defend myself?'

'Quite natural. You have done it very cleverly till now, and perhaps you will to the end. I feel sure there is no evidence against you, except the word of the woman who told your husband; and even if she comes forward, you have only to deny, and keep on denying.'

'Then why do you believe that woman rather than me?'

Alma answered only with a frivolous laugh. Sibyl, turning her head, looked an appeal to the listeners.

'Mrs. Rolfe,' said Hugh, in a rough, imploring voice, 'have you no other answer? You can't ruin people's lives like this, as if it were sport to you.'

Alma gazed at him, as if she had but just observed his face.

'You have gone through dreadful things,' she said earnestly. 'I'm sorry to cause you more trouble, but the fault is hers. She got that secret from you, and it delighted her. Go on believing what she says; it's the best way when all's over and done with. You can never know as I do.'

She laughed again, a little spurt of joyless merriment. Upon that, in the same moment, followed a loud hysterical cry; then sobs and wailing, with movements as if to tear open the clothing that choked her. Sibyl hastened away, and returned with her vinaigrette, which she handed to Rolfe. But already the crisis was over. Alma lay back in a chair, sobbing quietly, with head bent aside.

Carnaby and his wife, after an exchange of signals, silently left the room. Rolfe paced backwards and forwards for a minute or two, until he heard his name spoken; then he drew near, and Alma looked at him with her own eyes once more.

'I won't go back home unless you wish, Harvey.'

'Do you feel able to go?'

'If you wish me. If not, I'll go somewhere else.'

He sat down by her.

'Are you yourself, Alma? Do you know what you are saying?'

'Yes—indeed I do. I know I lost myself; my head went round; but I am well again now.'

'Then tell me in a word—is there any reason why you should not go home with me?'

'What's the use? You won't believe me. You can't believe me!'

He grasped her hand, and spoke imperatively, but not unkindly.

'Stop that! Answer me, and I will believe what you say.'

'There is no reason. I have done no wrong.'

'Then come, if you feel able to.'

She rose without help, and walked to a mirror, at which she arranged her dress. Harvey opened the door, and found all quiet. He led her through the passage, out into the common staircase, and down into the street. Here she whispered to him that a faintness was upon her; it would pass if she could have some restorative. They found a four-wheeled cab, and drove to a public-house, where Rolfe obtained brandy and brought it out to her. Then, wishing to avoid the railway station until Alma had recovered her strength, he bade the cabman drive on to Notting Hill Gate.

'May I sit at your side?' she asked, bending towards him in the darkness, when they had been silent for a few minutes.

Harvey replied by changing his own place.

'I want to tell you,' she resumed, her face near to his. 'I can't wait, and know you are thinking about me. There isn't much to tell. Are you sure you can believe me?'

'I have promised that I will.'

'I don't ask you to be kind or to love me. You will never love me again. Only believe that I tell the truth, that's all. I am not like that woman.'

'Tell me,' he urged impatiently.

'I wanted to make use of Mr. Redgrave to use his influence with people in society, so that I could have a great success. I knew he wasn't to be trusted, but I had no fear; I could trust myself. I never said or did anything—it was only meeting him at people's houses and at concerts, and telling him what I hoped for. You couldn't take any interest in my music, and you had no faith in my power to make a success. I wanted to show you that you were wrong.'

'I was wrong in more ways than one,' said Harvey.

'You couldn't help it. If you had tried to make me go another way, it would only have led to unhappiness. At that time I was mad to make my name known, and, though I loved you, I believe I could have left you rather than give up my ambition. Mr. Redgrave used to invite people to his house in the summer to afternoon tea, and I went there once with a lady. Other people as well—a lot of other people. That's how I knew the house. I was never there alone until that last evening.—Don't shrink away from me!'

'I didn't. Go on, and be quick.'

'I suspected Sibyl from the moment you told me about her husband and Mr Redgrave. You did, too, Harvey.'

'Leave her aside.'

'But it was because of her. I saw she was getting to dislike me, and I thought she knew Mr. Redgrave was doing his best for me, and that she was jealous, and would prevent him—do you understand? He was my friend, nothing else; but she would never believe that. And a few days before my recital he seemed to lose interest, and I thought it was her doing. Can you understand how I felt? Not jealousy, for I never even liked him. I was living only for the hope of a success. Do you believe me, Harvey?' 'Easily enough.'

Thereupon she related truly, without omission, the train of circumstances that brought her to Wimbledon on the fatal night, and all that happened until she fled away into the darkness.