So Max got around the table quickly by the opposite way to that which Dudley took, and threw himself into a chair by the writing-table in such a position that he could see what was on it.  And he saw two things:  One was that the photograph was that of Doreen; the other that a postal order for one pound, which lay beside the photograph, and upon which the ink was not yet dry, was made out to “Mrs. Edward Jacobs.”

Max felt himself blushing as Dudley snatched up the postal orders—­there were two of them—­and slip them into an envelope.  Then the eyes of the two men met.  And Dudley knew what Max had seen.

He seemed to hesitate a moment, then glanced at Max again, sat down to the writing-table, and took up a pen.  As he directed the letter, he said quietly: 

“Do you know whom I’m sending this money to?”

“Well, I did catch sight of the name,” stammered Max, unable to hide the fact that the question was an embarrassing one to him.

“Yes,” went on Dudley, as he showed him the directed letter, “it is to the widow of the poor devil who was found in the Thames the other day—­man who was once in my late father’s employment—­Edward Jacobs.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard,” stammered Max again.

The incident of Dudley sending money to the woman would have seemed to him trivial and even natural enough, if it had not been for the curious look of hard defiance which Dudley gave him out of his black eyes.  It was like a challenge; it set his friend wondering again, asking himself again all those tormenting questions about Edward Jacobs’s death which he had allowed to slip into a back place in his thoughts.

As he looked down at the end of the white table-cloth which touched the floor a loud laugh from Dudley startled him and made him look up.  And when he did so the conviction that his friend was mad, or, at least, subject to attacks of insanity, flashed into his mind more strongly than ever.  Dudley was leaning back, tilting his chair till it touched the dinner table, distending his jaws in a hard, mocking laugh as unlike mirth as possible.

“Oh, yes, so I’ve heard—­so I’ve heard!” repeated he, mockingly.  “And, of course, that’s all you’ve heard, isn’t it?  And you’ve never taken the trouble to make any personal inquiries in the matter?  Or thought of taking a journey, say, as far as Plumtree Wharf to make any private investigations?”

Max was startled.  He saw clearly enough that which he would fain have denied—­that Dudley was in communication with the people at the wharf, from whom he must have obtained this information.  For a moment he was silent.  It was not until Dudley’s harsh laughter had died away, and he, rather surprised to see how quietly Max took his accusation, had wheeled round in his chair to look at his friend, that Max said: 

“Well, I did go to the wharf.  And I’ll tell you why.  Doreen is breaking her heart about you, and she would have me find out what was wrong with you.”