He had savagely punished Krool for insolence to her and for his treachery, but a new feeling had grown up in him in the last half-hour.  Under the open taunts of his colleagues, a deep resentment had taken possession of him that his work, so hard to do, so important and critical, should have been circumvented by the indiscretions of his wife.

Upon her now this announcement came with crushing force.  Adrian Fellowes had gained from her—­she knew it all too well now—­that which had injured her husband; from which, at any rate, he ought to have been immune.  Her face flushed with a resentment far greater than that of Rudyard’s, and it was heightened by a humiliation which overwhelmed her.  She had been but a tool in every sense, she, Jasmine Byng, one who ruled, had been used like a—­she could not form the comparison in her mind—­by a dependent, a hanger-on of her husband’s bounty; and it was through her, originally, that he had been given a real chance in life by Rudyard.

“I am sorry,” she said, calmly, as soon as she could get her voice.  “I was the means of your employing him.”

“That did not matter,” he said, rather nervously.  “There was no harm in that, unless you knew his character before he came to me.”

“You think I did?”

“I cannot think so.  It would have been too ruthless—­too wicked.”

She saw his suffering, and it touched her.  “Of course I did not know that he could do such a thing—­so shameless.  He was a low coward.  He did not deserve decent burial,” she added.  “He had good fortune to die as he did.”

“How did he die?” Rudyard asked her, with a face so unlike what it had always been, so changed by agitation, that it scarcely seemed his.  His eyes were fixed on hers.

She met them resolutely.  Did he ask her in order to see if she had any suspicion of himself?  Had he done it?  If he had, there would be some mitigation of her suffering.  Or was it Ian Stafford who had done it?  One or the other—­but which?

“He died without being made to suffer,” she said.  “Most people who do wrong have to suffer.”

“But they live on,” he said, bitterly.

“That is no great advantage unless you want to live,” she replied.  “Do you know how he died?” she added, after a moment, with sharp scrutiny.

He shook his head and returned her scrutiny with added poignancy.  “It does not matter.  He ceases to do any more harm.  He did enough.”

“Yes, quite enough,” she said, with a withered look, and going over to her writing-table, stood looking at him questioningly.  He did not speak again, however.

Presently she said, very quietly, “I am going away.”

“I do not understand.”

“I am going to work.”

“I understand still less.”

She took from the writing-table her cheque-book, and handed it to him.  He looked at it, and read the counterfoil of the cheque she had given to Alice Tynemouth.