“Oh, no, I would rather you did not trouble and I won’t stay, thank you nevertheless.  I expect she will ring me up when she comes in.”

“Is there any message I can give her?”

“Well”—­she hesitated for an instant—­“you might tell her, if you would, that I only returned home at eight o’clock, so that I could not come around any earlier.”  She glanced rapidly at Irvin, biting her lip.  “I wish I could have seen her,” she added in a low voice.

“She wishes to see you particularly?”

“Yes.  She left a note this afternoon.”  Again she glanced at him in a troubled way.  “Well, I suppose it cannot be helped,” she added and smilingly extended her hand.  “Good night, Mr. Irvin.  Don’t bother to come to the door.”

But Irvin passed Hinkes and walked out under the porch with Margaret Halley.  Humid yellow mist floated past the street lamps, and seemed to have gathered in a moving reef around the little runabout car which was standing outside the house, its motor chattering tremulously.

“Phew! a beastly night!” he said.  “Foggy and wet.”

“It’s a brute isn’t it?” said the girl laughingly, and turned on the steps so that the light shining out of the hallway gleamed on her white teeth and upraised eyes.  She was pulling on big, ugly, furred gloves, and Monte Irvin mentally contrasted her fresh, athletic type of beauty with the delicate, exotic charm of his wife.

She opened the door of the little car, got in and drove off, waving one hugely gloved hand to Irvin as he stood in the porch looking after her.  When the red tail-light had vanished in the mist he returned to the house and re-entered the library.  If only all his wife’s friends were like Margaret Halley, he mused, he might have been spared the insupportable misgivings which were goading him to madness.  His mind filled with poisonous suspicions, he resumed his pacing of the library, awaiting and dreading that which should confirm his blackest theories.  He was unaware of the fact that throughout the interview he had held the stump of cigar between his teeth.  He held it there yet, pacing, pacing up and down the long room.

Then came the expected summons.  The telephone bell rang.  Monte Irvin clenched his hands and inhaled deeply.  His color changed in a manner that would have aroused a physician’s interest.  Regaining his self-possession by a visible effort, he crossed to a small side-table upon which the instrument rested.  Rolling the cigar stump into the left corner of his mouth, he took up the receiver.

“Hallo!” he said.

“Someone named Brisley, sir, wishes—­”

“Put him through to me here.”

“Very good, sir.”

A short interval, then: 

“Yes?” said Monte Irvin.

“My name is Brisley.  I have a message for Mr. Monte Irvin.”

“Monte Irvin speaking.  Anything to report, Brisley?”

Irvin’s deep, rich voice was not entirely under control.