He broke out again urgently: 

“Don’t be absurd, Christine.  I won’t have it, I tell you, I forbid you to leave the hotel.  After all, you’re my wife—­you must do as I wish.”  She seemed not to hear him; she stood with her eyes fixed straight in front of her.

“Please let me go.”

“Where are you going?  You’re my wife—­you’ll have to stay with me.”  His hand was on the door handle now; he was looking down at her with haggard eyes in his white face.

“Let’s begin all over again, Christine.  I’ve been a rotter, I know; but if you’ll have a little patience—­it’s not too late—­we can patch things up, and—­and I’ll promise you——­”

She cut him short.

“You are saying this because she is dead.  If she were living you would not care what I did, or what became of me.”  Suddenly her voice changed wildly.  “Oh, let me go—­let me go!”

For a moment their glances met, and for the first time in his spoilt and pampered life Jimmy Challoner saw hatred looking at him through a woman’s eyes.  It drove the hot blood to his head; he was unnerved with the shock he had suffered that evening.  For a moment he saw the world red; he lifted his clenched fist.

“Go, then—­and a damned good riddance!”

“Jimmy!” Her scream of terror stayed his hand, and kept him from striking her.  He staggered back, aghast at the thing he had so nearly done.

“Christine—­Christine——­” he stammered; but she had gone.  The shutting and locking of her bedroom door was his only answer.

CHAPTER XV

SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES

Sangster heard of Cynthia Farrow’s death late that night.

He was walking up Fleet Street when he ran into a man he knew—­a man whom Jimmy knew also; he stopped and caught him by his buttonhole.

“I say, have you heard—­awful thing, isn’t it?”

Sangster stared.

“Heard!  Heard what?”

“About Cynthia Farrow.  Had a frightful accident—­in Mortlake’s car.”

Sangster’s eyes woke to interest.

“Badly hurt?” he asked briefly.

“Dead!”

“My God!” There was a moment of tragic silence.  “Dead!” said Sangster again.  He could not believe it; his face was very pale.  “Dead!” he said again.  His thoughts flew to Jimmy Challoner.  “Are you sure?” he asked urgently.  “There’s no mistake—­you’re quite sure?”

“Sure!  Man alive, it’s in all the papers!  They’ve all got hold of a different story, of course; some say she never recovered consciousness, and others——­” He lowered his voice.  “I happen to know that she did,” he added confidentially.  “She sent for Challoner, and he was with her when she died.”

“Challoner—­Jimmy Challoner!” Sangster repeated his friend’s name dully.  The one shocked thought of his heart was “Christine.”