“Well, it wasn’t.”

“I dare say not.  But how do you know?  They ought to have put him in the box and had his evidence.”

“He was still too ill to be called,” rejoined Venn.  “But I’ll take you at your word, dear boy, and tell you exactly how I do know all about his illness.  You see that dark chap with the cigar, who’s just come in to listen?  That’s Severino’s doctor; it was he who put him up here; and I’ll introduce you to him, if you like, after dinner.”

“Thank you,” said Langholm, after some little hesitation; “as a matter of fact, I should like it very much.  Venn,” he added, leaning right across the little table, “I know the woman well!  I believe in her absolutely, on every point, and I mean to make her neighbors and mine do the same.  That is my object—­don’t give it away!”

“Dear boy, these lips are sealed,” said Valentine Venn.

But a very little conversation with the doctor sufficed to satisfy Langholm’s curiosity, and to remove from his mind the wild prepossession which he had allowed to grow upon it with every hour of that wasted day.  The doctor was also one of the Bohemian colony in Chelsea, and by no means loath to talk about a tragedy of which he had exceptional knowledge, since he himself had been one of the medical witnesses at each successive stage of the investigations.  He had also heard on the other side of the screen, that Langholm was the novelist referred to in a paragraph which had of course had a special interest for him; and, as was only fair, Langholm was interrogated in his turn.  What was less fair, and indeed ungrateful in a marked degree, was the way in which the original questioner parried all questions put to himself; and he very soon left the club.  On his way out, he went into the writing-room, and, tearing into little pieces a letter which he had written that afternoon, left the fragments behind him in the waste-paper basket.

His exit from the room was meanwhile producing its sequel in a little incident which would have astonished Langholm considerably.  Severino had been playing for nearly an hour on end, had seemed thoroughly engrossed in his own fascinating performance, and quite oblivious of the dining and smoking going on around him according to the accepted ease and freedom of the club.  Yet no sooner was Langholm gone than the pianist broke off abruptly and joined the group which the other had deserted.

“Who is that fellow?” said Severino, in English so perfect that the slight Italian accent only added a charm to his gentle voice.  “I did not catch the name.”

It was repeated, with such additions as may be fairly made behind a man’s back.

“A dashed good fellow, who writes dashed bad novels,” was one of these.

“You forget!” said another.  “He is the ‘well-known novelist’ who is going the rounds as a neighbor and friend of Mrs.—­”

Looks from Venn and the doctor cut short the speech, but not before its import had come home to the young Italian, whose hollow cheeks flushed a dusky brown, while his sunken eyes caught fire.  In an instant he was on his feet, with no attempt to hide his excitement, and still less to mask the emotion that was its real name.