band himself,"
said I.

"The foul suspicion--yes," she answered, her eyes downcast, her cheeks
faintly tinted. And then, quite suddenly, she moved forward. "Come," she
bade me. "You are being foolish."

"I shall be mad," said I, "ere I have done with this." And I fell into
step again beside her. "If I could not avenge you there, I can avenge
you here." And I pointed to the house. "I can smite this rumour at its
foulest point."

Her hand fell on my arm. "What would you do?" she cried.

"Bid your husband retract and sue to you for pardon, or else tear out
his lying throat," I answered, for I was in a great rage by now.

She stiffened suddenly. "You go too fast, Messer Agostino," said she.
"And you are over-eager to enter into that which does not concern you.
I do not know that I have given you the right to demand of my husband
reason of the manner in which he deals with me. It is a thing that
touches only my husband and myself."

I was abashed; I was humiliated; I was nigh to tears. I choked it all
down, and I strode on beside her, my rage smouldering within me. But it
was flaring up again by the time we reached the house with no more words
spoken between us. She went to her room without another glance at me,
and I repaired straight in quest of Fifanti.

I found him in the library. He had locked himself in, as was his
frequent habit when at his studies, but he opened to my knock. I stalked
in, unbuckled my sword, and set it in a corner. Then I turned to him.

"You are doing your wife a shameful wrong, sir doctor," said I, with all
the directness of youth and indiscretion.

He stared at me as if I had struck him--as he might have stared, rather,
at a child who had struck him, undecided whether to strike back for the
child's good, or to be amused and smile.

"Ah!" he said at last. "She has been talking to you?" And he clasped his
hands behind him and stood before me, his head thrust forward, his legs
wide apart, his long gown, which was open, clinging to his ankles.

"No," said I. "I have been thinking."

"In that case nothing will surprise me," he said in his sour,
contemptuous manner. "And so you have concluded...?"

"That you are harbouring an infamous suspicion."

"Your assurance that it is infamous would offend me did it not comfort
me," he sneered. "And what, pray, is this suspicion?

"You suspect that... that--O God! I can't utter the thing."

"Take courage," he mocked me. And he thrust his head fa