"I stepped out onto the lawn before the house and smoked a cigarette,
pacing up and down. I was asking myself again and again where that
thousand pounds was; whether it was in the drawing-room; and if so, why.
Presently, as I passed one of the drawing-room windows, I noticed Mrs.
Manderson's shadow on the thin silk curtain. She was standing at her
escritoire. The window was open, and as I passed I heard her say: 'I
have not quite thirty pounds here. Will that be enough?' I did not hear
the answer, but next moment Manderson's shadow was mingled with hers,
and I heard the chink of money. Then, as he stood by the window, and as
I was moving away, these words of his came to my ears--and these at
least I can repeat exactly, for astonishment stamped them on my
memory--'I'm going out now. Marlowe has persuaded me to go for a
moonlight run in the car. He is very urgent about it. He says it will
help me to sleep, and I guess he is right.'

"I have told you that in the course of four years I had never once heard
Manderson utter a direct lie about anything great or small. I believed
that I understood the man's queer skin-deep morality, and I could have
sworn that if he was firmly pressed with a question that could not be
evaded he would either refuse to answer or tell the truth. But what had
I just heard? No answer to any question. A voluntary statement, precise
in terms, that was utterly false. The unimaginable had happened. It was
almost as if one's dearest friend, in a moment of closest sympathy, had
suddenly struck one in the face. The blood rushed to my head, and I
stood still on the grass. I stood there until I heard his step at the
front-door, and then I pulled myself together and stepped quickly to the
car. He handed me a banker's paper bag with gold and notes in it.
'There's more than you'll want there,' he said, and I pocketed it
mechanically.

"For a minute or so I stood discussing with Manderson--it was by one of
those _tours de force_ of which one's mind is capable under great
excitement--certain points about the route of the long drive before me.
I had made the run several times by day, and I believe I spoke quite
calmly and naturally about it. But while I spoke my mind was seething in
a flood of suddenly-born suspicion and fear. I did not know what I
feared. I simply felt fear, somehow--I did not know how--connected with
Manderson. My soul once opened to it, fear rushed in like an assaulting
army. I felt--I knew--