Then he lowered his head, and she saw his lips touch the sheet.

            “Kenneth!” she exclaimed, and went out into the hall.

            The letter clutched in his hand, her husband turned and looked at her. “Where were you?” he said, in a low bewildered voice, like a man waked out of his sleep.

            “In the library, waiting for you.” She tried to steady her voice: “What’s the matter! What’s in that letter? You look ghastly.”

            Her agitation seemed to calm him, and he instantly put the envelope into his pocket with a slight laugh. “Ghastly? I’m sorry. I’ve had a hard day in the office—one or two complicated cases. I look dog-tired, I suppose.”

            “You didn’t look tired when you came in. It was only when you opened that letter—”

            He had followed her into the library, and they stood gazing at each other. Charlotte noticed how quickly he had regained his self-control; his profession had trained him to rapid mastery of face and voice. She saw at once that she would be at a disadvantage in any attempt to surprise his secret, but at the same moment she lost all desire to manoeuvre, to trick him into betraying anything he wanted to conceal. Her wish was still to penetrate the mystery, but only that she might help him to bear the burden it implied. “Even if it is another woman,” she thought.

            “Kenneth,” she said, her heart beating excitedly, “I waited here on purpose to see you come in. I wanted to watch you while you opened that letter.”

            His face, which had paled, turned to dark red; then it paled again. “That letter? Why especially that letter?”

            “Because I’ve noticed that whenever one of those letters comes it seems to have such a strange effect on you.”

            A line of anger she had never seen before came out between his eyes, and she said to herself: “The upper part of his face is too narrow; this is the first time I ever noticed it.”

            She heard him continue, in the cool and faintly ironic tone of the prosecuting lawyer making a point: “Ah; so you’re in the habit of watching people open their letters when they don’t know you’re there?”

            “Not in the habit. I never did such a thing before. But I had to find out what she writes to you, at regular intervals, in those gray envelopes.”

            He weighed this for a moment; then: “The intervals have not been regular,” he said.

            “Oh, I daresay you’ve kept a better account of the dates than I have,” she retorted, her magnanimity vanishing at his tone. “All I know is that every time that woman writes to you—”

            “Why do you assume it’s a woman?”

            “It’s a woman’s writing. Do you deny it?”

            He smiled. “No, I don’t deny it. I asked only because the writing is generally supposed to look more like a man’s.”

            Charlotte passed this over impatiently. “And this woman—what does she write to you about?”

            Again he seemed to consider a moment. “About business.”

            “Legal business?”

            “In a way, yes. Business in general.”

            “You look after her affairs for her?”

            “Yes.”

            “You’ve looked after them for a long time?”

            “Yes. A very long time.”

            “Kenneth, dearest, won’t you tell me who she is?”

            “No. I can’t.” He paused, and brought out, as if with a certain hesitation: “Professional secrecy.”

            The blood rushed from Charlotte’s heart to her temples. “Don’t say that—don’t!”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I saw you kiss the letter.”

            The effect of the words was so disconcerting that she instantly repented having spoken them. Her husband, who had submitted to her cross-questioning with a sort of contemptuous composure, as though he were humouring an unreasonable child, turned on her a face of terror and distress. For a minute he seemed unable to speak; then, collecting himself with an effort, he stammered out: “The writing is very faint; you must have seen me holding the letter close to my eyes to try to decipher it.” “No; I saw you kissing it.” He was silent. “Didn’t I see you kissing it?”

            He sank back into indifference. “Perhaps.”

            “Kenneth! You stand there and say that—to me?”

            “What possible difference can it make to you? The letter is on business, as I told you. Do you suppose I’d lie about it? The writer is a very old friend whom I haven’t seen for a long time.”

            “Men don’t kiss business letters, even from women who are very old friends, unless they have been their lovers, and still regret them.”

            He shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned away, as if he considered the discussion at an end and were faintly disgusted at the turn it had taken.

            “Kenneth!” Charlotte moved toward him and caught hold of his arm.

            He paused with a look of weariness and laid his hand over hers. “Won’t you believe me?” he asked gently.

            “How can I? I’ve watched these letters come to you—for months now they’ve been coming. Ever since we came back from the West Indies—one of them greeted me the very day we arrived. And after each one of them I see their mysterious effect on you, I see you disturbed, unhappy, as if someone were trying to estrange you from me.”

            “No, dear; not that. Never!”

            She drew back and looked at him with passionate entreaty. “Well, then, prove it to me, darling. It’s so easy!”

            He forced a smile.