Peter, sitting back in his corner, allowed the wonderful scenery to slip by unnoticed.  He put Harmony the Desirable out of his mind, and took to calculating on a scrap of paper what could be done for Harmony the Musician.  He could hold out for three months, he calculated, and still have enough to send Harmony home and to get home himself on a slow boat.  The Canadian lines were cheap.  If Jimmy lived perhaps he could take him along:  if not—­

He would have to put six months’ work in the next three.  That was not so hard.  He had got along before with less sleep, and thrived on it.  Also there must be no more idle evenings, with Jimmy in the salon propped in a chair and Harmony playing, the room dark save for the glow from the stove and for the one candle at Harmony’s elbow.

All roads lead to Rome.  Peter’s thoughts, having traveled in a circle, were back again to Harmony the Desirable—­Harmony playing in the firelight, Harmony Hushed over the brick stove, Harmony paring potatoes that night in the kitchen when he—­Harmony!  Harmony!

Stewart knew all about the accident and its cause.  Peter had surmised as much when the injured man failed to ask for Marie.

He tested him finally by bringing Marie’s name into the conversation.  Stewart ignored it, accepted her absence, refused to be drawn.

That was at first.  During the day, however, as he gained strength, he grew restless and uneasy.  As the time approached for Peter to leave, he was clearly struggling with himself.  The landlady had agreed to care for him and was bustling about the room.  During one of her absences he turned to Peter.

“I suppose Marie hasn’t been round?”

“She came back last night.”

“Did she tell you?”

“Yes, poor child.”

“She’s a devil!” Stewart said, and lay silent.  Then:  “I saw her shoot that thing out in front of us, but there was no time—­Where is she now?”

“Marie?  I sent her to Vienna.”

Stewart fell back, relieved, not even curious.

“Thank Heaven for that!” he said.  “I don’t want to see her again.  I’d do something I’d be sorry for.  The kindest thing to say for her is that she was not sane.”

“No,” said Peter gravely, “she was hardly sane.”

Stewart caught his steady gaze and glanced away.  For him Marie’s little tragedy had been written and erased.  He would forget it magnanimously.  He had divided what he had with her, and she had repaid him by attempting his life.  And not only his life, but Anita’s.  Peter followed his line of reasoning easily.

“It’s quite a frequent complication, Stewart,” he said, “but every man to whom it happens regards himself more or less as a victim.  She fell in love with you, that’s all.  Her conduct is contrary to the ethics of the game, but she’s been playing poor cards all along.”

“Where is she?”

“That doesn’t matter, does it?”