“More so than men, do you think?”

“As a rule—­yes.”

She put down the book and clasped her hands in her lap.

“There is no need to sympathize with Rebecca,” she said.  “She was brave and strong, even in her love for Johannes.  But he,” and there was a note in her voice that recalled the night he had listened to it over the telephone, “he was different.  There is no more dreadful thing in the play, to me, than the character of Rosmer.  To think of him sitting quietly in that charnel house, prospering in soul, growing sleek in thought, becoming stored with high ideas.  Perfect peace came to him in spite of the stern-faced portraits which shrieked murder from the walls.  He dreamed of freeing and ennobling mankind, and all the time Fate was weaving a net about him that was to drag him from the mill bridge after his dead wife.”

“Kroll knew him,” said the investigator.  “And he said Rosmer was easily influenced.  It is usually men of that type who are drawn into the vortex which swirls at every door.”

Her face was a little pale; but she now arose with a laugh and began rubbing her finger-tips with a handkerchief.

“I think we’d better remove the dust of the Norwegian,” she said; “and I make a vow never to read him again—­in the morning.”  She stood looking down at her caller, good-humoredly and continued:  “I suppose it is my fault, but you have a dreadfully gloomy expression.  Or maybe,” as an afterthought, “you ate an unwholesome dinner last night.  Were you at the Perrings, by any chance?”

He shook his head, his keen eyes searching her face.

“No,” said he, “I had much more important matters on hand.”

She held up her hand.

“It was something about this Hume affair,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied.

The smile was now gone; she leaned back against a heavy table, her fingers tightly clasping its edge.

“I have been trying to forget that dreadful thing,” she said.  “I’ve stopped looking at the papers, because I would be sure to see it mentioned.  And,” with never a faltering in her eyes, “because I might be reminded of it in some other way, I now remain indoors.”

“Last night was an exception, perhaps,” suggested he, smoothly.

“Last night?” There was a questioning look in her beautiful eyes; the finely posed head with its crown of bright hair bent toward him inquiringly.

An expression of chagrin crept into his face.

“You were not out last night, then?” said he.

“What makes you think so?” smilingly.  “It was dreadfully dull here, too.  But then,” with a shrug, “anything is better than a constant reminder of that Christie Place affair.”

He nodded understandingly.

“I suppose it is very distressing.”  He frowned gloomily at the tips of his shoes and she could see that he bit his lip with vexation.  After a moment or two, he said:  “It’s very strange; but I was quite sure I saw you last night.”