He went on steadily.  “It was impossible not to hear what the beast said.  He mentioned names also,—­your name and the name of the man whom he alleged you had killed.  Lady Evesham heard it.  We both heard it.”

He paused.  Piers had not moved.  His face was like a mask in its composure, but it was a dreadful mask.  Tudor had a feeling that it hid unutterable things.

“What was the man’s name?” Piers asked, after a moment.

“Denys—­Eric Denys.”

Piers nodded, as one verifying a piece of information.  His next question came with hauteur and studied indifference.

“Lady Evesham heard, you say?  Did she pay any attention to these maudlin revelations?”

“She fainted,” said Tudor shortly.

“Oh?  And what happened then?”

It was maddeningly cold-blooded; but it was the mask that spoke.  Tudor recognized that.

“I brought her round,” he made answer.  “No one else was present.  She begged me to let her go home alone.  I did so.”

“She also asked you to make full explanation to me?” came in measured tones from Piers.

“She did.”  Tudor paused a moment as though he found some difficulty in forming his next words.  But he went on almost at once with resolution.  “She said to me at parting:  ’I must be alone.  I must think.  Beg Piers to understand!  Beg him not to see me again to-day!  I will talk to him in the morning!’ I promised to deliver the message exactly as she gave it.”

“Thank you,” said Piers.  He turned with the words, moved away to the window, and looked forth at the now deserted marquee.

Tudor stood mutely waiting; he felt as if it had been laid upon him to wait.

Suddenly Piers jerked his head round and glanced at the chair in which Avery had been sitting, then abruptly turned himself and looked at Tudor.

“What were you—­and my wife—­doing in here?” he said.

Tudor frowned impatiently at the question.  “Oh, don’t be a fool, Evesham!” he said with vehemence.

“I’m not a fool.”  Piers left the window with the gait of a prowling animal; he stood again face to face with the other man.  But though his features were still mask-like, his eyes shone through the mask; and they were eyes of leaping flame.  “Oh, I am no fool, I assure you,” he said, and in his voice there sounded a deep vibration that was almost like a snarl.  “I know you too well by this time to be hoodwinked.  You would come between us if you could.”

“You lie!” said Tudor.

He did not raise his voice or speak in haste.  His vehemence had departed.  He simply made the statement as if it had been a wholly impersonal one.

Piers’ hands clenched, but they remained at his sides.  He looked at Tudor hard, as if he did not understand him.

After a moment Tudor spoke again.  “I am no friend of yours, and I never shall be.  But I am the friend of your wife, and—­whether you like it or not—­I shall remain so.  For that reason, whatever I do will be in your interests as well as hers.  I have not the smallest intention or desire to come between you.  And if you use your wits you will see that I couldn’t if I tried.  Your marriage with her tied my hands.”