But Mrs. Horncastle as hastily said, “Yes—­yes—­of course, only I had forgotten the amount;” and he continued:—­

“That loss would have frightened any man; but you women are more daring.  Only Van Loo ought to have withdrawn.  Don’t you think so?  Of course I couldn’t say anything to him without seeming to condemn my own wife; I couldn’t say anything to her because it’s her own money.”

“I didn’t know that Mrs. Barker had any money of her own,” said Mrs. Horncastle.

“Well, I gave it to her,” said Barker, with sublime simplicity, “and that would make it all the worse for me to speak about it.”

Mrs. Horncastle was silent.  A new theory flashed upon her which seemed to reconcile all the previous inconsistencies of the situation.  Van Loo, under the guise of a lover, was really possessing himself of Mrs. Barker’s money.  This accounted for the risks he was running in this escapade, which were so incongruous to the rascal’s nature.  He was calculating that the scandal of an intrigue would relieve him of the perils of criminal defalcation.  It was compatible with Kitty’s innocence, though it did not relieve her vanity of the part it played in this despicable comedy of passion.  All that Mrs. Horncastle thought of now was the effect of its eventful revelation upon the man before her.  Of course, he would overlook his wife’s trustfulness and business ignorance—­it would seem so like his own unselfish faith!  That was the fault of all unselfish goodness; it even took the color of adjacent evil, without altering the nature of either.  Mrs. Horncastle set her teeth tightly together, but her beautiful mouth smiled upon Barker, though her eyes were bent upon the tablecloth before her.

“I shall do all I can to impress your views upon her,” she said at last, “though I fear they will have little weight if given as my own.  And you overrate my general influence with her.”

Her handsome head drooped in such a thoughtful humility that Barker instinctively drew nearer to her.  Besides, she had not lifted her dark lashes for some moments, and he had the still youthful habit of looking frankly into the eyes of those he addressed.

“No,” he said eagerly; “how could I?  She could not help but love you and do as you would wish.  I can’t tell you how glad and relieved I am to find that you and she have become such friends.  You know I always thought you beautiful, I always thought you so clever—­I was even a little frightened of you; but I never until now knew you were so good.  No, stop!  Yes, I did know it.  Do you remember once in San Francisco, when I found you with Sta in your lap in the drawing-room?  I knew it then.  You tried to make me think it was a whim—­the fancy of a bored and worried woman.  But I knew better.  And I knew what you were thinking then.  Shall I tell you?”

As her eyes were still cast down, although her mouth was still smiling, in his endeavors to look into them his face was quite near hers.  He fancied that it bore the look she had worn once before.