All through the evening she had been on the verge of telling Dion that his wife was in Constantinople, but something had held her back.  And even now she could not make up her mind whether to tell him or not.  She was afraid to risk the revelation because she did not know at all how he would take it.  When he knew she might be free.  There was the possibility of that.  He must realize, he would surely be obliged to realize, that his wife could have but one purpose in deliberately traveling out to the place where he was living.  She must be seeking a reconciliation, in spite of the knowledge which Mrs. Clarke had read in her eyes that day.  But would Dion face those eyes with the hard defiance of one irreparably aloof from his former life?  If he were really ready and determined to show himself in London as the lover of another woman would he not be ready to do the same thing here in Constantinople?

To tell him seemed to Mrs. Clarke the one chance of escape for her now, but she was afraid to tell him because she was afraid to know that what seemed the only possible avenue to freedom was barred against her.  She had said to herself at the piano “Vouloir c’est pouvoir,” and she had determined to be free, but again Dion’s will of a desperate man had towered up over hers.  It was the fact that he was desperate which gave to him this power.

At last the gloves lay absolutely smooth on her hands and arms, and she went back to the drawing-room.  Till she opened the door of it she did not know what she was going to do.

“So you’re dressed!” Dion said as she came in.  “That’s right.  Let’s be off.”

“What is the good of going?  You have said we hate each other.  How can this sort of thing go on in hatred?  Dion, let us give it all up.”

“Why have you put on your things?”

“I don’t know.  Let us say good-by to-night, and not in anger.  We were not suited to be together for long.  We are too different.”

“How many men have you said all this to already?  Come along!”

He took her firmly by the wrist.

“Wait, Dion!”

“Why should we wait?”

“There’s something I must tell you before we go.”

He kept his hand on her wrist.

“Well?  What is it?”

“I went to Santa Sophia to-day.”

As she spoke the Bedouin came before her again.  She saw his bronze-colored arms and his bird-like eyes.

“Santa Sophia!  Did you go to pray?”

She stared at him.  His lips were curled in a smile.

“No,” she said.  “But I like to go there sometimes.  As I was coming away I met some one.”

“Well?”

“Some one you know—­a woman.”

“A woman?  Lady Ingleton?”

“No; your wife.”

The fingers which held her wrist became suddenly cold, but they still pressed firmly upon her flesh.

“That’s a lie!” he said hoarsely.

“It isn’t!”