And then he saw the letter lying there on the floor between them in all its brazen pinkness. The faint scent of lilies was wafted to his brain before he stooped and grabbed it up. He held it at arm's length while he read it, as if already its writer had become repellent to him.

There was a long, long silence.

The letter had been written two days ago. Jimmy realised dully that Cynthia must have gone straight from his rooms that evening and sent it; realised that it had been lying at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt died until now.

Perhaps Cynthia Farrow had not realised what she was doing--perhaps she judged all women by her own standard; but surely even she would have been more than satisfied with the results could she have seen Christine's face as she sat there in the big, silent room, with the afternoon sunshine streaming around her.

Twice Jimmy tried to speak, but no words would come; he felt as if rough hands were at his throat, choking him, squeezing the life out of his body, Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside his wife.

"Christine--for G.o.d's sake----" He tried to take her in his arms, but she moved away; shrank back from him as if in terror, hiding her face and moaning--moaning.

"Christine . . ." There was a sob in Jimmy Challoner's voice now; he broke out stammeringly. "Don't believe it--it's all lies. I'd give my soul to undo it--if only you'd never seen it. I swear to you on my word of honour that I'll never see her again. I'll do any mortal thing, anything in the wide world, if only you'll look at me--if you'll forgive me---- Oh, for G.o.d's sake, say you forgive me----"

Her hands fell from her face; for a moment her eyes sought his.

"Then--then it _is_ true!" she said faintly.

"Yes. I can't tell you a lie about it--it _is_ true. I _did--did_ love her. I was--engaged to her; but it's all over. I swear to you that it's all over and done with. I'll never see her again--I'll be so good to you." She hardly seemed to hear.

"Then you never really loved me?" she asked after a moment. "It wasn't because--because you loved me?"

"N-no." He got to his feet again; he strode up and down the room agitatedly. He had spoken truly enough when he said that he would have given his soul to undo these last few moments.

Presently he came back to where she sat--this poor little wife of his.

"Forgive me, dear," he said, very humbly. "I--I ask your pardon on my knees--and--it isn't too late; we've got all our lives before us.

We'll go right away somewhere--you and I--out of London. We'll never come back."

She echoed his words painfully.

"_You and I? I--I can't go anywhere--ever--with you--now!_"

He broke into anger.

"You're talking utter nonsense; you must be mad. You've married me--you're my wife. You'll have to come with me--to do as I tell you.

I--oh, confound it----!" He broke off, realising how dictatorial his voice had grown. He paced away from her again, and again came back.

"Look at me, Christine." She raised her eyes obediently. The hot blood rushed to Jimmy's face. He wondered if It were only his fancy, or if there were really scorn in their soft brownness. He tried to speak, but broke off. Christine rose to her feet; she pa.s.sed the pink letter as if she had not seen it; she walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Jimmy sharply.

She looked back at him. "I don't know. I--oh, please leave me alone,"

she added piteously as he would have followed her.

He let her go then; he waited till the door had shut, then he s.n.a.t.c.hed up Cynthia's letter once again, and read it through.

It was an abominable thing to have done, he told himself--abominable; and yet, as he read the skilfully penned words, his vain man's heart beat a little faster at the knowledge that she still loved him, this woman who had thrown him over so heartlessly; she still loved him, though it was too late. The faint scent of the lilies which her note-paper always carried brought back the memory of her with painful vividness. Before he was conscious of it, Jimmy had lifted the letter to his lips.

He flung it from him immediately in honest disgust; he despised himself because he could not forget her; he tried to imagine what Christine must be thinking--be suffering. With sudden impulse he tore open the door; he went across to her room--their room; he tried the handle softly. It was locked.

"Christine!" But there was no answer. He called again: "Christine!"

And now he heard her voice.

"Go away; please go away." An angry flush dyed his face. After all, she was his wife; it was absurd to make this fuss. After all, everything had happened before he proposed to her; it was all over and done with. It was her duty to overlook the past.

He listened a moment; he wondered if anyone would hear if he ordered her to let him in--if he threatened to break the door down.

He could hear her crying now; hear the deep, pitiful sobs that must be shaking her whole slender body.

"Christine!" But there was nothing very masterful in the way he spoke her name; his voice only sounded very shamed and humiliated as, after waiting a vain moment for her reply, he turned and went slowly away.

CHAPTER XII

SANGSTER IS CONSULTED

Jimmy had been married two days when one morning he burst into Sangster's room in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury.

It had been raining heavily. London looked grey and dismal; even the little fat sparrows who twittered all day long in the boughs of a stunted tree outside the window of Sangster's modest sitting-room had given up trying to be cheerful, and were huddled together under the leaves.

Sangster was in his shirt-sleeves and old carpet slippers, writing, when Jimmy entered. He looked up disinterestedly, then rose to his feet.

"You! good heavens!"

"Yes--me," said Jimmy ungrammatically. He threw his hat on to the horsehair sofa, which seemed to be the most important piece of furniture in the room, and dropped into a chair. "Got a cigarette? My case is empty."

Sangster produced his own; it was brown leather, and shabby; very different from the silver and enamel absurdity which Jimmy Challoner invariably carried.

After a moment:

"Well?" said Sangster. There was a touch of anxiety in his kindly eyes, though he tried to speak cheerfully. "Well, how goes it--and the little wife?"

Jimmy growled something unintelligible. He threw the freshly lit cigarette absently into the fireplace instead of the spent match, swore under his breath, and grabbed it back again.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet.

"I've made the devil's own mess of it all," he said violently.

Sangster made no comment; he put down his pen, pushed his chair back a little and waited.

Jimmy blew an agitated puff of smoke into the air and blurted out again: "She says she won't stay with me; she says----" He threw out his hands agitatedly. "It wasn't my fault; I swear to you that it wasn't my fault, Sangster. Things were going swimmingly, and then the letter came--and that finished it." He was incoherent--stammering; but Sangster seemed to understand.

"Cynthia Farrow?" he asked briefly.

"Yes. The letter was sent on from the hotel where Christine had been staying with her mother. It had been delayed two days, as the people didn't know where she was." He swallowed hard, as if choking back a bitter memory. "It came about an hour after we left you."

"On your wedding day?" Sangster was flushed now; his eyes looked very distressed.