In the afternoon of the following day Tyson was sitting with Molly in the

dining-room when he was told that Captain Stanistreet had called and had

asked to see him. "Was he--?" Yes, the Captain was in the drawing-room.

Tyson was a little surprised at the announcement; for though the shock of

the fire had somewhat obscured his recollection of the events that

preceded it, Molly had unfortunately recalled them to his memory. But he

had clean forgotten some of the details. Consequently he was more than a

little surprised when Stanistreet, without any greeting or formality

whatsoever, took two letters from his pocket and flung one of them on the

window-seat.

"That's your letter," he said. "And here's the answer."

He laid Molly's little note down beside it.

Tyson stared at the letters rather stupidly. That correspondence was one

of the details he had forgotten. He also stared at Stanistreet, who

looked horribly ill. Then he took up Molly's note and examined it without

reading a word. It was crumpled, dirty, almost illegible, as if Louis had

thrust it violently into his pocket, and carried it about with him for

weeks.

"If you really don't know what it means," said Stanistreet, "I'll tell

you. It means that your wife had only one idea in her head. She didn't

understand it in the least, but she stuck to it. She thought of it from

morning till night, when other women would have been amusing themselves;

thought of it ever since you married her and left her. Unfortunately,

it kept her from thinking much of anything else. There were many things

she might have thought of--she might have thought of me. But she

didn't."

"Thanks. I know that as well as you. Did it ever occur to you to think of

her?"

"I shouldn't be here if I hadn't thought of her."

"Oh--" Tyson stepped over to the empty fireplace. It was the only thing

in the room that was left intact.

His attitude suggested that he was lord of the hearth, and that his

position was indestructible.

"Since you considered your testimony to my wife's character so

indispensable, may I ask why you waited five weeks to give it?"

Tyson could play with words like a man of letters; he fought with them

like the City tailor's son.

"You post your letters rather late. I left town 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?"




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