First appeared an enclosure—­a letter in his cousin Mary’s writing.  He turned to the other sheet and read these lines,—­

’I send you something that has come by post this afternoon.  Please to bring it with you when you meet me at eight o’clock—­if you still care to do so.’

His face flushed with anger.  What contemptible woman’s folly was this?  ’If you still care to do so’—­and written in a hand that shook.  If this was to be his experience of matrimonial engagement—­What rubbish had Mary been communicating?

’My DEAR RHODA,—­I have just gone through a very painful scene, and I feel bound to let you know of it without delay, as it may concern you.  This evening (Monday), when I came home from Great Portland Street, Emma told me that Mr. Widdowson had called, that he wished to see me as soon as possible, and would be here again at six o’clock.  He came, and his appearance alarmed me, he was looking so dreadfully ill.  Without preface, he said, “My wife has left me; she has gone to her sister, and refuses to return.”  This was astonishing in itself, and I wondered still more why he should come and tell me about it in so strange a way.  The explanation followed very promptly, and you may judge how I heard it.  Mr. Widdowson said that his wife had been behaving very badly of late; that he had discovered several falsehoods she had told him as to her employment during absences from home, in daytime and evening.  Having cause for suspecting the worst, he last Saturday engaged a private detective to follow Mrs. Widdowson wherever she went.  This man saw her go to the flats in Bayswater where Everard lives and knock at his door.  As no one replied, she went away for a time and returned, but again found no one at home.  This being at once reported to Mr. Widdowson he asked his wife where she had been that afternoon.  The answer was false; she said she had been here, with me.  Thereupon he lost command of himself, and charged her with infidelity.  She refused to offer any kind of explanation, but denied that she was guilty and at once left the house.  Since, she has utterly refused to see him.  Her sister can only report that Monica is very ill, and that she charges her husband with accusing her falsely.

’He had come to me, he said, in unspeakable anguish and helplessness, to ask me whether I had seen anything suspicious in the relations between Monica and my cousin when they met at this house or elsewhere.  A nice question!  Of course I could only reply that it had never even occurred to me to observe them—­that to my knowledge they had met so rarely—­and that I should never have dreamt of suspecting Monica.  “Yet you see she must be guilty,” he kept on repeating.  I said no, that I thought her visit might have an innocent significance, though I couldn’t suggest why she had told falsehoods.  Then he inquired what I knew about Everard’s present movements.  I answered that I had every reason to think that he was out of town, but didn’t know when he went, or when he might be expected to return.  The poor man was grievously dissatisfied; he looked at me as if I were in a base plot against him.  It was an immense relief when he went away, after begging me to respect his confidence.