The arch-conspirator went upstairs, came down, and then, seeking the lady whom he had left in the parlor, said to her: 

“Denham’s up there and you can go up and say whatever you have to say.  You know ‘In union there is strength.’  Well you’ve got him alone now, and he’ll prove weakly as a consequence or I miss my guess.”

Then he walked straight over by the window and picked up a magazine as if it was all settled, and she only hesitated for half a second before she turned and went upstairs.

There was a door half open in the hall above, and she knew that that must be the door.  She tapped at it lightly, and a man’s voice (a voice that she knew well), called out gruffly: 

“Come in!”

She pushed the door open at that and entered, and saw Jack, and he saw her.  He turned very pale at the sight, and then the color flooded his face, and he rose from his chair abruptly, and put his hand up to the strips that held the bandage on his head.

“Burnett isn’t here,” he said quickly.  “He went out just a few minutes ago.”

His tone was hard, and yet at the same time it shook slightly.

She approached him, holding out her hand.

“I’m glad of that,” she said, “because it was to see you that I came.”

To her great surprise something mutinous and scornful flashed in his eyes as he rolled a chair forward for her.

“You honor me,” he said, and his tone and manner both hardened yet more.  His general appearance was that of a man ten years older; he had changed terribly in the weeks since she had last seen him.  She took the chair and sat down, still looking at him.  He sat down too, and his eyes went restlessly around the room as if they sought a hold that should withhold them from her searching gaze.  There was a short pause.

“Don’t speak like that,” she said at last.  “It isn’t your way, and I know you too well—­we know one another too well—­to be anything but sincere.  You owe me something, too, and if I forbear you should understand why.”

“I owe you something, do I?” he asked.  “What do I owe you?”

Mrs. Rosscott caught her under lip in her teeth.

“You gave me a promise, Mr. Denham,” she said, quite low, but most distinctly—­“a promise which you broke.”

Jack flushed; his eyelids drooped for a minute.

“I didn’t break it,” he said.  “I gave it up.”

“Is there any difference?”

“A great difference.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you want to have the truth?” he said.  “If you really do, I’ll tell you.  But I don’t ask to tell you, recollect, and if I were you I’d drop the whole—­I certainly would.—­If I were you.”

She looked at him in astonishment.

“I don’t understand,” she said.  “Tell me what you mean.”

He raised his hand to his bandaged head again.

“I think,” he said, fighting hard to speak with utter indifference, “I think that it would have been better if you had told me about Holloway.”