“Yes,” said Miriam, after some delay, speaking deliberately, “I can give you some information.”

“Then do so, and don’t keep me in torment.”

“Yesterday afternoon I happened to be passing Mr. Mallard’s studio, and I saw her enter it; she came in a cab.  She stayed there an hour or two; it grew dark whilst she was there.  Then I saw them both go away together.”

Elgar stared, half incredulously.

“You saw this?  Do you mean that you waited about and watched?”

“Yes.”

“You had suspicions?”

“I knew what a happy home she had returned to.”

Again she seated herself.

“She went there to ask about me,” said Elgar, in a forced voice.

“You think so?  Why to him?  Wouldn’t she rather have come to me?  Why did she stay so long?  Why did he go away with her?  And why hasn’t she returned home?”

Question followed question with cold deliberateness, as if the matter barely concerned her.

“But Mallard?  What is Mallard to her?”

“How can I tell?”

“Were they together much in Rome?”

“I think very likely they were.”

“Miriam, I can’t believe this.  How could it happen that you were near Mallard’s studio just then?  How could you stand about for hours, spying?”

“Perhaps I dreamt it.”

“Where is this studio?” he asked.  “I knew the other day, but I have forgotten.”

She told him the address.

“Very well, then I must go there.  You still adhere to your story?”

“Why should I invent it?” she exclaimed bitterly “And what is there astonishing in it?  What right have you to be astonished?”

“Every right!” he answered, with violence.  “What warning have I had of such a thing?”

She rose and moved away with a scornful laugh.  For a minute he looked at her as she stood apart, her face turned from him.

“If I find Mallard,” he said, “of course I shall tell him who my authority is.”

She turned.

“No; that you will not do!”

“And why not?”

“Because I forbid you.  You will not dare to mention my name in any such conversation!  Besides”—­her voice fell to a tone of indifference—­“if you meet him, there will be no need.  You will ask your question, and that will be enough.  There is very little chance of his being at the studio.”

“I see that your Puritan spirit is gratified,” he said, looking at her with fierce eyes.

“Naturally.”

He went towards the door.  Miriam, raising her eyes and following him a step or two, said sternly: 

“In any case, you understand that my name is not to be spoken.  Show at least some remnant of honour.  Remember who I am, and don’t involve me in your degradation.”

“Have no fear.  Your garment of righteousness shall not be soiled.”