time.

It had come home first by the light of those two matches, struck outside
in the dark part of the deserted terrace. It was not the lad whom I
distrusted, but the woman of whose face I had then obtained my only
glimpse--that night.

I had known her, after all, in India years before.

CHAPTER IV

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE

Once in the Town Hall at Simla (the only time I was ever there) it was
my fortune to dance with a Mrs. Heymann of Lahore, a tall woman, but a
featherweight partner, and in all my dancing days I never had a better
waltz. To my delight she had one other left, though near the end, and we
were actually dancing when an excitable person came out of the
card-room, flushed with liquor and losses, and carried her off in the
most preposterous manner. It was a shock to me at the time to learn that
this outrageous little man was my partner's husband. Months later, when
I came across their case in the papers, it was, I am afraid, without
much sympathy for the injured husband. The man was quite unpresentable,
and I had seen no more of him at Simla, but of the woman just enough to
know her by matchlight on the terrace at the Riffel Alp.

And this was Bob's widow, this dashing _divorcee_! Dashing she was as I
now remembered her, fine in mould, finer in spirit, reckless and
rebellious as she well might be. I had seen her submit before a
ball-room, but with the contempt that leads captivity captive. Seldom
have I admired anything more. It was splendid even to remember, the
ready outward obedience, the not less apparent indifference and disdain.
There was a woman whom any man might admire, who had had it in her to be
all things to some man! But Bob Evers was not a man at all. And
this--and this--was his widow!

Was she one at all? How could I tell? Yes, it was Lascelles, the other
name in the case, to the best of my recollection. But had she any right
to bear it? And even supposing they had married, what had happened to
the second husband? Widow or no widow, second marriage or no second
marriage, defensible or indefensible, was this the right friend for a
lad still fresh from Eton, the only son of his mother, who had sent me
in secret to his side?

There was only one answer to the last question, whatever might be said
or urged in reply to all the rest. I could not but feel that Catherine
Evers had been justified in her instinct to an almost miraculous degree;
that her worst fears were true enough, so far