to her bedroom, and that she had asked the groom
to bring her motor-bicycle to the door. It seemed to me strange that she
should arrange to go out alone when my visit was such a short one. I had
gone into her little study to seek her, and here it was that I waited,
for it opened on to the hall passage, and she could not pass without my
seeing her.

There was a small table in the window of this room at which she used to
write. I had seated myself beside this when my eyes fell upon a name
written in her large, bold hand-writing. It was a reversed impression
upon the blotting-paper which she had used, but there could be no
difficulty in reading it. The name was Hubert Vardin. Apparently it was
part of the address of an envelope, for underneath I was able to
distinguish the initials S.W., referring to a postal division of London,
though the actual name of the street had not been clearly reproduced.

Then I knew for the first time that she was actually corresponding with
this man whose vile, voluptuous face I had seen in the photograph with
the frayed edges. She had clearly lied to me, too, for was it
conceivable that she should correspond with a man whom she had never
seen? I don't desire to condone my conduct. Put yourself in my place.
Imagine that you had my desperately fervid and jealous nature. You would
have done what I did, for you could have done nothing else. A wave of
fury passed over me. I laid my hands upon the wooden writing-desk. If
it had been an iron safe I should have opened it. As it was, it
literally flew to pieces before me. There lay the letter itself, placed
under lock and key for safety, while the writer prepared to take it from
the house. I had no hesitation or scruple, I tore it open.
Dishonourable, you will say, but when a man is frenzied with jealousy he
hardly knows what he does. This woman, for whom I was ready to give
everything, was either faithful to me or she was not. At any cost I
would know which.

A thrill of joy passed through me as my eyes fell upon the first words. I
had wronged her. "Cher Monsieur Vardin." So the letter began. It was
clearly a business letter, nothing else. I was about to replace it in
the envelope with a thousand regrets in my mind for my want of faith when
a single word at the bottom of the page caught my eyes, and I started as
if I had been stung by an adder. "Verdun"--that was the word. I looked
again. "Ypres" was immediately below it.