up. He held it at arm's length while
he read it, as if already its writer had become repellent to him.
There was a long, long silence.

The letter had been written two days ago. Jimmy realised dully that
Cynthia must have gone straight from his rooms that evening and sent
it; realised that it had been lying at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt died
until now.

Perhaps Cynthia Farrow had not realised what she was doing--perhaps she
judged all women by her own standard; but surely even she would have
been more than satisfied with the results could she have seen
Christine's face as she sat there in the big, silent room, with the
afternoon sunshine streaming around her.

Twice Jimmy tried to speak, but no words would come; he felt as if
rough hands were at his throat, choking him, squeezing the life out of
his body, Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside his wife.

"Christine--for God's sake----" He tried to take her in his arms, but
she moved away; shrank back from him as if in terror, hiding her face
and moaning--moaning.

"Christine . . ." There was a sob in Jimmy Challoner's voice now; he
broke out stammeringly. "Don't believe it--it's all lies. I'd give my
soul to undo it--if only you'd never seen it. I swear to you on my
word of honour that I'll never see her again. I'll do any mortal
thing, anything in the wide world, if only you'll look at me--if you'll
forgive me---- Oh, for God's sake, say you forgive me----"

Her hands fell from her face; for a moment her eyes sought his.

"Then--then it _is_ true!" she said faintly.

"Yes. I can't tell you a lie about it--it _is_ true. I _did--did_
love her. I was--engaged to her; but it's all over. I swear to you
that it's all over and done with. I'll never see her again--I'll be so
good to you." She hardly seemed to hear.

"Then you never really loved me?" she asked after a moment. "It wasn't
because--because you loved me?"

"N-no." He got to his feet again; he strode up and down the room
agitatedly. He had spoken truly enough when he said that he would have
given his soul to undo these last few moments.

Presently he came back to where she sat--this poor little wife of his.

"Forgive me, dear," he said, very humbly. "I--I ask your pardon on my
knees--and--it isn't too late; we've got all our lives before us.
We'll go right away somewhere--you and I--out of London. We'll never
come back."

She echoed his words painfully.

"_You and I? I--I ca