“What is it?” asked her husband, startled.

“Oh, look, Dyce!  Look at this!”

She pointed him to a paragraph headed:  “Disappearance of a City Man.”  When Lashmar had read it, he met his wife’s anguished look with surprise and misgiving.

“You’ve had a precious narrow escape.  Of course this is nothing to you, now?”

“Oh but I’m afraid it is—­I’m afraid it is, Dyce—­”

“What do you mean?  Didn’t you get everything out of his hands?”

“I thought it was safe—­I left it till we were back at home—­”

Lashmar started to his feet, pale as death.

“What?  Then all your money is lost?”

“Oh, surely not?  How can it be?  We must make inquiries at once—­”

“Inquiries?  Inquiries enough have been made, you may depend upon it, before this got into the papers.  Why, read!  The fellow has bolted; the police are after him; he has robbed and swindled right and left.  Do you imagine your money has escaped his clutches?”

They stood face to face.

“Dear, don’t be angry with me!” sounded from Iris in a choking voice.  “I am not to blame—­I couldn’t help it—­oh don’t look at me like that, dear husband!”

“But you have been outrageously careless!  What right had you to expose us to this danger?  Ass that I was ass, ass that I was!  I wanted to speak of it, and my cursed delicacy prevented me.  What right had you to behave so idiotically?”

He set off at a great speed towards Dawlish.  Iris ran after him, caught his arm, clung to him.

“Where are you going?  You won’t leave me?”

“I’m going to London, of course,” was his only reply, as he strode on.

Running by his side, Iris told with broken breath of the offer of marriage she had received from Wrybolt not long ago.  She understood now why he wished to marry her; no doubt he already found himself in grave difficulties, and saw this as a chance either of obtaining money, or of concealing a fraud he had already practised at her expense.

“Why didn’t you fell me that before?” cried Lashmar, savagely.  “What right had you to keep it from me?”

“I ought to have told you.  Oh, do forgive me!  Don’t walk so quickly, Dyce!  I haven’t the strength to keep up with you.—­You know that he hadn’t everything—­most fortunately not everything—­”

With an exclamation of wrathful contempt, the man pursued his way.  Iris fell back; she tottered; she sank to her knee upon the grass, moaning, sobbing.  Only when he was fifty yards ahead did Dyce pause and look back.  Already she was running after him again.  He turned, and walked less quickly.  At length there was a touch upon his arm.

“Dear—­dear—­don’t you love me?” panted a scarce audible voice.

“Don’t be a greater idiot than you have been already,” was his fierce reply.  “I have to get to London, and look after your business; that’s enough to think about just now.”