as all very fine; but it would not do.

"I feel as if I had led you into saying more than you meant to say, or
than I wanted to learn," he said slowly. "But there is one brutal
question which is the whole point of my inquiry." He braced his frame
like one preparing for a plunge into cold waters. "Mrs. Manderson, will
you assure me that your husband's change toward you had nothing to do
with John Marlowe?"

And what he had dreaded came. "Oh!" she cried with a sound of anguish,
her face thrown up and open hands stretched out as if for pity; and then
the hands covered the burning face, and she flung herself aside among
the cushions at her elbow, so that he saw nothing but her heavy crown of
black hair and her body moving with sobs that stabbed his heart, and a
foot turned inward gracefully in an abandonment of misery. Like a tall
tower suddenly breaking apart she had fallen in ruins, helplessly
weeping.

Trent stood up, his face white and calm. With a senseless particularity
he placed his envelop exactly in the center of the little polished
table. He walked to the door, closed it noiselessly as he went out, and
in a few minutes was tramping through the rain out of sight of White
Gables, going nowhere, seeing nothing, his soul shaken in the fierce
effort to kill and trample the raving impulse that had seized him in the
presence of her shame, that clamored to him to drag himself before her
feet, to pray for pardon, to pour out words--he knew not what words, but
he knew that they had been straining at his lips--to wreck his
self-respect forever, and hopelessly defeat even the crazy purpose that
had almost possessed him, by drowning her wretchedness in disgust, by
babbling with the tongue of infatuation to a woman with a husband not
yet buried, to a woman who loved another man.

Such was the magic of her tears, quickening in a moment the thing which,
as his heart had known, he must not let come to life. For Philip Trent
was a young man, younger in nature even than his years, and a way of
life that kept his edge keen and his spirit volcanic had prepared him
very ill for the meeting that comes once in the early manhood of most of
us, usually--as in his case, he told himself harshly--to no purpose but
the testing of virtue and the power of the will.

CHAPTER X

"HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED"

(_Being the report which was not sent to the Record._)

_Marlstone, June 16th._

My Dear Molloy: This is in case I d