Suppose they had made a mistake, had given the wrong verdict, why should that make any difference to Dion?  He had definitely done with the goodness of good women.  Why should he fear the evil of a woman who was bad?  Perhaps in the women who were called evil by the respectable, or by those who were temperamentally inclined to purity, there was more warm humanity than the women possessed who never made a slip, or stepped out of the beaten path of virtue.  Perhaps those to whom much must be forgiven were those who knew how to forgive.

If Mrs. Clarke really were what Beadon Clarke’s counsel had suggested that she was, how would it affect him?  Dion pondered that question on the quay.  Mrs. Clarke’s pale and very efficient hypocrisy, which he had been able to observe at close quarters since he had been at Buyukderer, might well have been brought into play against himself, as it had been brought into play against the little world on the Bosporus and against Jimmy.

Dion made up his mind that he would go to the pavilion that night.  The cold curiosity which had floated up to the surface of his mind enticed him.  He wanted to know whether he was among the victims, if they could reasonably be called so, of Mrs. Clarke’s delicate hypocrisy.  He was still thinking of Mrs. Clarke as a weapon; he was also thinking that perhaps he did not yet know exactly what type of weapon she was.  He must find that out to-night.  Not even the thought of Jimmy should deter him.

At a few minutes before eleven he went back to his rooms, unlocked his despatch box, and drew out the key of the gate of Mrs. Clarke’s garden.  He thrust it into his pocket and set out on the short walk to the Villa Hafiz.  The night was dark and cloudy and very still.  Dion walked quickly and surreptitiously, not looking at any of the people who went by him in the darkness.  All the windows of the villa which faced the sea were shuttered and showed no lights.  He turned to the right, stood before the garden gate and listened.  He heard no sound except a distant singing on the oily waters of the Bay.  Softly he put his key into the gate, gently unlocked it, stepped into the garden.  A few minutes later he was on the highest terrace and approached the pavilion.  As he did so Mrs. Clarke came out of the drawing-room of the villa, passed by the fountain, and began to ascend the garden.

She was dressed in black and in a material that did not rustle.  Her thin figure did not show up against the night, and her light slow footfall was scarcely audible on the paths and steps as she went upward.  Jimmy had gone to bed long ago, tired out with the long ride in the heat.  She had just been into his bedroom, without a light, and had heard his regular breathing.  He was fast asleep, and once he was asleep he never woke till the light of day shone in at the window.  It was a comfort that one could thoroughly rely on the sleeping powers of a healthy boy of fifteen.