“And you would promise me to be kind to it?  I don’t mind the expense; keep it well, and let me know what you spend.  And of course I should consider your trouble.”

So that matter was satisfactorily arranged, and Waymark went home.

Julian spent his day at the hospital as usual, finding relief in fixing his attention upon outward things.  It was only when he left his work in the evening that he became aware how exhausted he was in mind and body.  And the dread which he had hitherto kept off came back upon him, the dread of seeing his wife’s face and hearing her voice.  When he parted with Waymark in the morning, he had thought that he would be able to come to some resolution during the day as to his behaviour with regard to her.  But no such decision had been formed, and his overtaxed mind could do no more than dwell with dull persistency on a long prospect of wretchedness.  Fear and hatred moved him in turns, and the fear was as much of himself as of the object of his hate.

As he approached the door, a man came out whom he did not know, but whose business he suspected.  He had little doubt that it was a police officer in plain clothes.  He had to stand a moment and rest, before he could use his latchkey to admit himself.  When he entered the sitting-room, he found the table spread as usual.  Harriet was sitting with sewing upon her lap.  She did not look at him.

He sat down, and closed his eyes.  There seemed to be a ringing of great bells about him, overpowering every other sound; all his muscles had become relaxed and powerless; he half forgot where and under what circumstances he was, in a kind of deadly drowsiness.  Presently this passed, and he grew aware that Harriet was preparing tea.  When it was ready, he went to the table, and drank two or three cups, for he was parched with thirst.  He could not look at Harriet, but he understood the mood she was in, and knew she would not be the first to speak.  He rose, walked about for a few minutes, then stood still before her.

“What proof have you to offer,” he said, speaking in a slow but indistinct tone, “that she is guilty of this, and that it isn’t a plot you have laid against her?”

“You can believe what you like,” she replied sullenly.  “Of course I know you’ll do your worst against me.”

“I wish you to answer my question.  If I choose to suspect that you yourself put this brooch in her pocket—­and if other people choose to suspect the same, knowing your enmity against her, what proof can you give that she is guilty?”

“It isn’t the first thing she’s stolen.”

“What proof have you that she took those other things?”

“Quite enough, I think.  At all events, they’ve found a pawn-ticket for the spoon at her lodgings, among a whole lot of other tickets for things she can’t have come by honestly.”

Julian became silent, and, as Harriet looked up at him with eyes full of triumphant spite, he turned pale.  He could have crushed the hateful face beneath his feet.