“Have you only just come in?” he asked.

The tone in his voice seemed to question her right to come in at all.  And she was no actress.  Another woman in her place, even knowing all she knew, suspecting all she did, would have turned to him in amazement; questioning his right to speak to her like that; covered her guilt with a cloak of astonished innocence and paraded her injury before him.  Sally took it for granted; did not even argue from it the certainty that he had seen her.  Her mind was made up for the lie and she did not possess that agility of purpose which, at a moment’s notice, could enable her to twist her intentions—­a mental somersault that needs the double-jointedness of cunning and all the consummate flexibility of tact.  He might know that she had followed them, but she must never admit it.  It seemed a feasible argument to her, in the whirling panic of her thoughts, that her admission would be fatal—­just as the prisoner in the dock pleads “not guilty” against all the damning evidence of every witness who can be brought against him.

“I’ve been in about half an hour,” she replied.

“Did you dine with Devenish?”

The same direct form of question, thrown at her with the same implacable scrutiny of his eyes.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Where?”

She mentioned the name of the restaurant in Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Where did you go afterwards?”

It was all prepared on her tongue.  She did not hesitate.

“To the Palace,” she replied.

“To the Palace?” He repeated it.  His eyes burnt into her.  Then she knew that he had seen her in the theatre; but only in the theatre where she could still swear to him that he was mistaken.  Every instinct she possessed forced her to deny it until the last; beyond that if breath were left her.

“Did you see it out?  Did you see the performance out?” he continued.

“Yes—­we waited till the end.”

A note of warning despatched to Devenish would ensure his confirmation of all she had said.  He had told her that if ever she needed a friend—­now indeed she wanted one.

“What did you do then if you only came in half an hour ago?  It’s just one o’clock.”

A thought rushed exultingly to her mind that he was jealous—­jealous of Devenish.  He had not seen her at all.  This was jealousy.  Her heart cried out in thankfulness.  She crossed the room to him, all the whole wealth of her love alive and bright in her eyes.

“Jack”—­she whispered—­“you’re not jealous of Devenish, are you?”

A laugh broke out from his lips, striking her with the sting of its harshness.

“Where did you go afterwards?” he repeated.

“To supper—­we went to supper—­the same place where we had dined.  Why wouldn’t you tell me if you were jealous?  Do you think I should mind?”