Wingrave closed the door behind him.  His greetings were laconic as usual.  He addressed Lady Ruth.

“I find myself obliged,” he said, “to take a journey which may possibly be a somewhat protracted one.  I wished, before I left, to see you and your husband.  I sent for you together, but I wish to speak to you separately—­to your husband first.  You have often expressed a desire to see over my house, Lady Ruth.  My major domo is outside.  Will you forgive me if I send you away for a few minutes?”

Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet.

“How long do you wish me to keep away?” she asked calmly.

“A few minutes only,” he answered.  “You will find me here when Parkinson has shown you round.”

He held the door open and she passed out, with a single upward and wondering glance.  Wingrave closed the door, and seated himself close to where Barrington was standing.

“Barrington,” he said, “twenty years ago we were friends.  Since then we have been enemies.  Today, so far as I am concerned, we are neither.”

Barrington started a little.  His lips twitched nervously.  He did not quite understand.

“I am sure, Wingrave—­” he began.

Wingrave interrupted him ruthlessly.

“I give you credit,” he continued, “for understanding that my attitude towards you since I—­er—­reappeared, has been inimical.  I intended you to speculate, and you did speculate.  I meant you to lose, and you have lost.  The money I lent to your wife was meant to remain a rope around your neck.  The fact that I lent it to her was intended to humiliate you, the attentions which I purposely paid to her in public were intended to convey a false impression to society—­and in this, too, I fancy that I have been successful.”

Barrington drew a thick breath—­the dull color was mounting to his cheeks.

Wingrave continued calmly—­

“I had possibly in my mind, at one time,” he said, “the idea of drawing things on to a climax—­of witnessing the final disappearance of yourself and your wife from the world—­such as we know it.  I have, however, ceased to derive amusement or satisfaction from pursuing what we may call my vengeance.  Consequently, it is finished.”

The light of hope leaped into Barrington’s dull eyes, but he recognized Wingrave’s desire for silence.

“A few feet to your left, upon my writing table,” Wingrave continued, “you will find an envelope addressed to yourself.  It contains a discharge, in full, for the money I have lent you.  I have also ventured to place to your credit, at your own bank, a sum sufficient to give you a fresh start.  When you return to Cadogan Square, or, at least, this evening, you will receive a communication from the Prime Minister, inviting you to become one of the International Board of Arbitration on the Alaskan question.  The position, as you know, is a distinguished one, and if you should be successful, your future career should be assured.”