, with the exception of the signature,
which was a wonderful imitation of his own, was the handwriting of his
wife. She had done this thing at Draconmeyer's instigation, done this
thing against her husband, taken sides absolutely with the man whom he
had come to look upon as his enemy! What inference was he to draw? He
sat there, looking out over the Mediterranean, soft and blue, glittering
with sunlight, breaking upon the yellow stretch of sand in little
foam-flecked waves no higher than his hand. He watched the sunlight
glitter on the white houses which fringed the bay. He looked idly up at
the trim little vineyards on the brown hill-side. It was the beauty spot
of the world. There was no object upon which his eyes could rest, which
was not beautiful. The whole place was like a feast of colour and form
and sunshine. Yet for him the light seemed suddenly to have faded from
life. Danger had only stimulated him, had helped him to cope with the
dull pain which he had carried about with him during the last few
months. He was face to face now with something else. It was worse, this,
than anything he had dreamed. Somehow or other, notwithstanding the
growing estrangement with his wife which had ended in their virtual
separation, he had still believed in her, still had faith in her, still
had hope of an ultimate reconciliation. And behind it all, he had loved
her. It seemed at that moment that a nightmare was being formed around
him. A new horror was creeping into his thoughts. He had felt from the
first a bitter dislike of Draconmeyer. Now, however, he realised that
this feeling had developed into an actual and harrowing jealousy. He
realised that the man was no passive agent. It was Draconmeyer who, with
subtle purpose, was drawing his wife away! Hunterleys sprang to his feet
and walked angrily backwards and forwards along the few yards of
Terrace, which happened at that moment to be almost deserted. Vague
plans of instant revenge upon Draconmeyer floated into his mind. It was
simple enough to take the law into his own hands, to thrash him
publicly, to make Monte Carlo impossible for him. And then, suddenly, he
remembered his duty. They were trusting him in Downing Street. Chance
had put into his hands so many threads of this diabolical plot. It was
for him to checkmate it. He was the only person who could checkmate it.
This was no time for him to think of personal revenge, no time for him
to brood over his own broken life. T