McClintock’s astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis.  That any human being could conceive and execute such a thing!  A Roundhead, here in these prosaic times!—­and mad as a hatter!  Trying the role of St. Anthony, when God Himself had found only one man strong enough for that!  McClintock shook his head violently, as if to dismiss this dream he was having.  But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged.  Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock’s motionless shoulders.

“’Tis a cruel thing you’ve done, lad.  Even if you were sick in the mind and did not understand what you were doing, it’s a mighty cruel thing you have done.  Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared.  I’m neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I’ll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere.  ’He’s a good fellow, and ‘twill all end well’.  You have set out to do something which is neither God’s way nor man’s.  What’ll you be doing?”

“What can I do?” asked Spurlock, raising his haggard face.  “Can’t you see?  I can’t hurt her, if ... if she cares!  I can’t tell her I’m a madman as well as a thief!...  What a fool!  What a fool!”

A thief.  McClintock’s initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man.  But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding.  One transgression; he was sure of that.  The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscience to such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything.  All this muddle to placate his conscience!

“Here—­quick!” McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock’s hand.  “Put it in your teeth and light it.  I hear her coming.”

Spurlock obeyed mechanically.  The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway.

“I thought we were going to have some music,” she said.

Her husband stared at her over the candle flame.  Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger.  And this utter stranger ... loved him!  He had no reason to doubt McClintock’s statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth Enschede had married Howard Spurlock.  All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it.  For a space he rode the whirligig.

“We were talking shop,” said McClintock, rising.  Observing Spurlock’s spell-bound attitude, he clapped the boy on the shoulder.  “Come along!  We’ll start that concert right away.”

In the living room Spurlock’s glance was constantly drawn toward Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked over to the piano and struck a few chords.

“You play?” asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls.

“A little.  This is a good piano.”

“It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here,” said the Scot, ruefully.  “Ever play one of these machines?”