an hour after I got
hers."

"It was the least you could do."

"Then I got ill. That also was the least I could do. But I did my best to
die too, for decency's sake. Needless to say, I did not succeed."

"I see. You thought of yourself first, and of her afterwards. What I want
to know is, would you have thought of me, supposing--only supposing--you
could have taken advantage of the situation?"

"No. In that case I would not have thought of you. I would have thought
of her."

"In other words, you would have behaved like a scoundrel if you'd got
the chance." The twinkle in Tyson's eyes intimated that he was enjoying
himself immensely. He had never had the whip-hand of Stanistreet before.

"I would have behaved like a damned scoundrel, if you like. But I
wouldn't have left her. Not even to marry and live morally ever after.
I can be faithful--to another man's wife."

The twinkle went out like a spark, and Tyson looked at his hearth. It was
dangerous to irritate Stanistreet, for there was no end to the things he
knew. So he only said, "Do you mind not shouting quite so loud. She's in
there--she may hear you."

She had heard him; she was calling to Nevill. He went to her, leaving the
door of communication unlatched.

"Is that Louis?" she asked. Tyson muttered something which Stanistreet
could not hear, and Molly answered with an intense pleading note that
carried far. "But I _must_ see him."

He started forward at the sound of her voice. I believe up to the very
last he clung to the doubt that was his hope. But Tyson had heard the
movement and he shut the door.

The pleading and muttering went on again on the other side. Heaven only
knew what incriminating things the little fool was saying in there! As
Stanistreet waited, walking up and down the empty room, he noticed for
the first time that it _was_ empty. Only the other day it had been
crammed with things that were symbols or monuments of the foolishness
of Mrs. Nevill Tyson. Now ceiling and walls were foul with smoke, the gay
white paint was branded and blistered, and the floor he walked on was
cleared as if for a dance of devils. But it was nothing to Stanistreet.
It would have been nothing to him if he had found Mrs. Nevill Tyson's
drawing-room utterly consumed. There was no reality for him but his own
lust, and anger, and bitterness, and his idea of Mrs. Nevill Tyson.

Presently Tyson came back.

"You can go in," he said, "but keep quiet, for God's sake