“Come in.”

They passed into the studio.  The last time they had seen each other was more than three years ago, at Naples; both showed something of curiosity, over and above the feelings of graver moment.  Mallard, observing the signs of mental stress on Elgar’s features, wondered to what they were attributable.  Was the fellow capable of suffering remorse or shame to this degree?  Or was it the outcome of that other affair, sheer ignoble passion?  Reuben, on his part, could not face the artist’s somewhat rigid self-possession without feeling rebuked and abashed.  The fact of Mallard’s being here at this hour seemed all but a disproval of what Miriam had hinted, and when he looked up again at the rugged, saturnine, energetic countenance, and met the calmly austere eyes, he felt how improbable it was that this man should be anything to Cecily save a conscientious friend.

“I haven’t come in answer to your invitation,” Reuben began, glancing uneasily at the pictures, and endeavouring to support an air of self-respect.  “Something less agreeable has brought me.”

They had not shaken hands, nor did Mallard offer a seat.

“What may that be?” he asked.

“I believe you have seen my wife lately?”

“What of that?”

Mallard began to knit his brows anxiously.  He put up one foot on a chair, and rested his arm on his knee.

“Will you tell me when it was that you saw her?”

“If you will first explain why you come with such questions,” returned the other, quietly.

“She has not been home since yesterday; I think that is reason enough.”

Mallard maintained his attitude for a few moments, but at length put his foot to the ground again, and repeated the keen look he had cast at the speaker as soon as that news was delivered.

“When did you yourself go home?” he asked gravely.

“Late last night.”

Mallard pondered anxiously.

“Then,” said he, “what leads you to believe that I have seen Mrs. Elgar?”

“I don’t merely believe; I know that you have.”

Elgar felt himself oppressed by the artist’s stern and authoritative manner.  He could not support his dignity; his limbs embarrassed him, and he was conscious of looking like a man on his trial for ignoble offences.

“How do you know?” came from Mallard, sharply.

“I have been told by some one who saw her come here yesterday, in the late afternoon.”

“I see.  No doubt, Mrs. Baske?”

The certainty of this flashed upon Mallard.  He had never seen Miriam walk by, but on the instant he comprehended her doing so.  It was even possible, he thought, that, if she had not herself seen Cecily, some one in her employment had made the espial for her.  The whole train of divination was perfect in his mind before Elgar spoke.

“It is nothing to the purpose who told me.  My wife was here for a long time, and when she went away, you accompanied her.”