“He is not the sort of man to forget,” Barrington said, half to himself.

She shuddered ever so slightly.  Then she stretched out a long white arm, and drawing his head suddenly down to her, kissed him on the lips.

“If only,” she murmured, “he would give up the letters!  Without them, he might say—­anything.  No one would believe!”

Barrington raised his eyes to hers.  There was something almost pathetic in the worshiping light which shone there.  He was, as he had always been, her abject slave.

“Can you think of any way?” he asked.  “Shall I go to him again?”

“Useless!” she answered.  “You have nothing to offer in exchange.  He would not give them to me.  He surely would not give them to you.  Shall I tell you what is in his mind?  Listen, then!  He is rich now; he means to make more money there.  Then he will return, calling himself Mr. Wingrave—­an American—­with imaginary letters of introduction to us.  He has ambitions—­I don’t know what they are, but they seem to entail his holding some sort of a place in society.  We are to be his sponsors.”

“Is it practicable?” he asked.

“Quite,” she answered.  “He is absolutely unrecognizable now.  He has changed cruelly.  Can’t you imagine the horror of it?  He will be always in evidence; always with those letters in the background.  He means to make life a sort of torture chamber for us!”

“Better defy him at once, and get over,” Barrington said.  “After all, don’t you think that the harm he could do is a little imaginary?”

She brushed the suggestion aside with a little shiver.

“Shall I tell you what he would do, Lumley?” she said, leaning towards him.  “He would have my letters, and a copy of my evidence, printed in an elegant little volume and distributed amongst my friends.  It would come one day like a bomb, and nothing that you or I could do would alter it in the least.  Your career and my social position would be ruined.  Success brings enemies, you know, Lumley, and I have rather more than my share.”

“Then we are helpless,” he said.

“Unless we can get the letters—­or unless he should never return from America,” she answered.

Barrington moved uneasily in his seat.  He knew very well that some scheme was already forming in his wife’s brain.

“If there is anything that I can do,” he said in a low tone, “don’t be afraid to tell me.”

“There is one chance,” she answered, “a sort of forlorn hope, but you might try it.  He has a secretary, a young man named Aynesworth.  If he were on our side—­”

“Don’t you think,” Barrington interrupted, “that you would have more chance with him than I?”

She laughed softly.

“You foolish man,” she said, touching his fingers lightly.  “I believe you think that I am irresistible!”

“I have seen a good many lions tamed,” he reminded her.

“Nonsense!  Anyhow, there is one here who seems quite insensible.  I have talked already with Mr. Aynesworth.  He would not listen to me!”