“There’s some mistake.  He isn’t a thief.”

“No?” The husband swayed a few steps closer, his face working disagreeably.  “Already it is proved.  He is exposed, ruined.  Bah!  He made of me a laughing-stock.  Well, he shall suffer!  A born thief, that’s what he is.  What have you to say?”

“Why—­nothing.  I hoped it was a mistake, that’s all.”

“You hoped!  To be sure!” sneered the speaker.  “Well, what are you going to do about it?” When his wife said nothing the man muttered, in some astonishment:  “I didn’t expect you to take it so quietly.  I was prepared for a scene.  What ails you?”

Hilda laid down her book.  She turned to face her accuser.  “Why should I make a scene?” she asked.  “I’ve had nothing to do with Phillips since we parted company at White Horse.  I’ve scarcely spoken to him, and you know it.”

“You don’t deny there was something between you?”

The woman shrugged non-committally, her lips parted in a faint, cheerless smile.  “I deny nothing.  I admit nothing.”

Although Courteau’s brain was fogged, he experienced a growing surprise at the self-possession with which his wife had taken this blow which he had aimed as much at her as at Pierce Phillips; he studied her intently, a mingling of suspicion, of anger, and of admiration in his uncertain gaze.  He saw, for one thing, that his effort to reach her had failed and that she remained completely the mistress of herself.  She reclined at ease in her comfortable chair, quite unstirred by his derision, his jubilation.  He became aware, also, of the fact that she presented an extremely attractive picture, for the soft white fur of the loose robe she wore exposed an alluring glimpse of snowy throat and bosom; one wide sleeve had fallen back, showing a smoothly rounded arm; her silken ankles, lifted to the cozy warmth of the stove, were small and trim; her feet were shod in neat high-heeled slippers.  The Count admired neatly shod ladies.

“You’re a very smart-looking woman,” he cried, with some reluctance.  “You’re beautiful, Hilda.  I don’t blame the young fool for falling.  But you’re too old, too wise—­”

Hilda nodded.  “You’ve said it.  Too old and too wise.  If I’d been as young and as silly as when I met you—­who knows?  He’s a handsome boy.”

Again the husband’s anger blazed up.

“But I’m not young and silly,” his wife interrupted.

“Just the same, you played me a rotten trick,” the Count exploded.  “And I don’t forget.  As for him”—­he swore savagely—­“he’ll learn that it’s not safe to humiliate me, to rob me of any woman—­wife or mistress.  You’ve never told me the half; I’ve had to guess.  But I’m patient, I know how to wait and to use my eyes and my ears.  Then to strike me!  Perdition!  I’ll follow this through, never fear.”

“How did you get a thousand dollars, Henri?” the wife inquired, curiously.

Courteau’s gaze shifted.  “What difference?  I won it on a turn at the North Star; it was given to me; I found it.  Anyhow, I had it.  It was a good night for me; yes, a very good night.  I had my revenge and I showed my friends that I’m a man to be reckoned with.”