to the writer’s knowledge that this woman had turned Mrs. Minchin from her door with a lying statement as to his whereabouts.  This he mentioned to confirm his declaration that he always meant to tell the truth to Rachel, that it was his first resolve in the early stages of his recovery, long before he knew of her arrest and trial, and that this woman was aware of that resolve as of all else.  But he doubted whether she could be made to speak, though he hoped that for his sake she would.  And Langholm grinned with set teeth as he turned back to this passage:  he would be diabolically safe.

It was only an evil thought.  He did not admit it as a temptation.  Yet how it stuck, and how it grew!

There was the fire, as though lit on purpose; in a minute the written evidence could be destroyed for ever; and there was no other kind.  Dead men tell no tales, and live men only those that suit them!

It all fitted in so marvellously.  To a villain it would have been less a temptation than a veritable gift of his ends.  Langholm almost wished he were a villain.

There was Steel.  Something remained for explanation there, but there really was a case against him.  The villain would let that case come on; the would-be villain did so in his own ready fancy, and the end of it was a world without Steel but not without his wife; only, she would be Steel’s wife no more.

And this brought Langholm to his senses.  “Idiot!” he said, and went out to his wet paths and ruined roses.  But the ugly impossible idea dogged him even there.

“If Steel had been guilty—­but he isn’t, I tell you—­no, but if he had been, just for argument, would she ever have looked—­hush!—­idiot and egotist!—­No, but would she?  And could you have made her happy if she had?—­Ah, that’s another thing ...  I wonder!—­It is worth wondering about; you know you have failed before.  Yes, yes, yes; do you think I forget it?  No, but I must remind you.  Are you the type to make women happy, women with anything in them, women with nerves?  Are you not moody, morbid, uneven, full of yourself?—­No, of my work.  It comes to the same thing for the woman.  Could you have made her happy?—­yes or no!  If no, then pull yourself together and never think of it.  Isn’t it always better to be the good friend than the tiresome husband, and, if you care for her, to show her your best side instead of all your sides?  I thought so!  Then thank your stars, and—­never again!”

So the two voices, that are only one voice, within Langholm that night, in the heavy fragrance of his soaking garden, under the half-shut eye of a waning moon; and, having conquered him, the voice of sense and sanity reminded him of his reward:  “Remember, too, how you promised to serve her; and how, if less by management than good luck, you have, after all, performed the very prodigy you undertook.  Go and tell her.  I should go to-night.  No, it is never too late to bring good news.  I should jump on my bicycle and go now!”