‘But why—?’ Vera smiled.

‘Look here, my dear lady,’ said Mr Bittenger, in a peculiar voice, putting down his glass.

And with a swift movement he lifted a wig of glorious chestnut hair from his head—­just lifted it for an instant, and dropped it.  The man was utterly and completely bald.

III

Vera did nothing foolish.  She neither cried, screamed, turned deadly pale, clenched her fragile hands, bit her lips till the blood came, smashed a wine-glass, nor fell with a dull thud senseless to the floor.  Nevertheless, she was extremely perturbed by this astounding revelation of Mr Bittenger’s.  Of course, dreams are nonsense.  But still—­The truth is, one tries to believe that dreams are nonsense, and up to a certain point one may succeed in believing.  But it seemed to Vera that circumstances had passed that point.  She could not but admit, also, that if the dream went on being fulfilled, within forty-eight hours Mr Bittenger would have made love to her, and would have killed her husband.

She was so incensed against Stephen that she really could not decide whether she wanted the dream to be fulfilled or not.  No one would have imagined that that soft breast could conceal a homicidal thought.  Yet so it was.  That pretty and delightful woman, wandering about in the edifice of her terrific grievance against Stephen, could not say positively to herself that she would not care to have Stephen killed as a punishment for his sins.

After dinner, she found an excuse for retiring.  She must think the puzzle out in solitude.  Matters were really going too far.  She allowed it to be understood that she was indisposed.  Mr Bittenger was full of sorrow and sympathy.  But did Stephen show the slightest concern?  Stephen did not.  She went upstairs, and she meditated, stretched on the sofa at the foot of the bed, a rug over her knees and the fire glinting on her face.  Yes, it was her duty as a Christian, if not as an outraged wife, to warn Stephen that the shadow of death was creeping up behind him.  He ought at least to be warned.  But how could she warn him?  Clearly she could not warn him in the presence of Mr Bittenger, the prospective murderer.  She would, therefore, have to warn him when they were alone.  And that meant that she would have to give way in the great conjugal sulking match.  No, never!  It was impossible that she should give way there!  She frowned desperately at the leaping flames, and did ultimately decide that Stephen’s death was preferable to her defeat in that contest.  Of such is human nature.

After all, dreams were nonsense.

Surely Stephen would come upstairs to inquire about her health, her indisposition?  But no!  He came not.  And, as he continued not to come, she went downstairs again and proclaimed that she was better.