She could not bear to remain in Rudyard’s house; and in his heart of hearts Rudyard would wish the same, even if he believed her innocent; but if she must stay for appearance’ sake, then it would be good to have Lady Tynemouth with her.  Rudyard would be grateful for time to get his balance again.  This bunch of violets was the impulse of a big, magnanimous nature; but it would be followed by the inevitable reaction, which would be the real test and trial.

Love and forgiveness—­what had she to do with either!  She did not wish forgiveness because of Adrian Fellowes.  No heart had been involved in that episode.  It had in one sense meant nothing to her.  She loved another man, and she did not wish forgiveness of him either.  No, no, the whole situation was impossible.  She could not stay here.  For his own sake Rudyard would not, ought not, to wish her to stay.  What might the next few days bring forth?

Who had killed Adrian Fellowes?  He was not man enough to take his own life—­who had killed him?  Was it her husband, after all?  He had said to Ian Stafford that he would do nothing, but, with the maggot of revenge and jealousy in their brains, men could not be trusted from one moment to another.

The white violets?  Even they might be only the impulse of the moment, one of those acts of madness of jealous and revengeful people.  Men had kissed their wives and then killed them—­fondled them, and then strangled them.  Rudyard might have made up his mind since morning to kill Fellowes, and kill herself, also.  Fellowes was gone, and now might come her turn.  White violets were the flowers of death, and the first flowers he had ever given her were purple violets, the flowers of life and love.

If Rudyard had killed Adrian Fellowes, there would be an end to everything.  If he was suspected, and if the law stretched out its hand of steel to clutch him—­what an ignominious end to it all; what a mean finish to life, to opportunity, to everything worth doing!

And she would have been the cause of everything.

The thought scorched her soul.

Yet she talked on gaily to her guests until the men returned from their cigars; as though Penalty and Nemesis were outside even the range of her imagination; as though she could not hear the snap of the handcuffs on Rudyard’s—­or Ian’s—­wrists.

Before and after dinner only a few words had passed between her and Rudyard, and that was with people round them.  It was as though they spoke through some neutralizing medium, in which all real personal relation was lost.  Now Rudyard came to her, however, and in a matter-of-fact voice said:  “I suppose Al’mah will be here.  You haven’t heard to the contrary, I hope?  These great singers are so whimsical.”

There was no time for Jasmine to answer, for through one of the far entrances of the drawing-room Al’mah entered.  Her manner was composed—­if possible more composed than usual, and she looked around her calmly.  At that moment a servant handed Byng a letter.  It contained only a few words, and it ran: