rather late, you
know."

"Not _too_ late," said the other, mistaking him; "your wife is still
ready to meet you half-way, Jack."

"Oh--that? I meant the Algonquin matter--" He checked himself, seeing
for the first time in his life contempt distorting Grandcourt's heavy
face.

"Man! Man!" he said thickly, "is there nothing in that letter for you
except money offered?"

"What do you mean?"

"I say, is there nothing in that message to you that touches the manhood
in you?"

"You don't know what is in it," said Dysart listlessly. Even
Grandcourt's contempt no longer produced any sensation; he looked at the
letter, tore it into long strips, crumpled them and stood up with a
physical effort:

"I'm going to burn this. Have you anything else to say?"

"Yes. Good God, Jack, _don't_ you care for your wife? _Can't_ you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't know." His tone became querulous. "How can a man tell why he
becomes indifferent to a woman? I don't know. I never did know. I can't
explain it. But he does."

Grandcourt stared at him. And suddenly the latent fear that had been
torturing him for the last two weeks died out utterly: this man would
never need watching to prevent any attempt at self-destruction; this man
before him was not of that caste. His self-centred absorption was of a
totally different nature.

He said, very red in the face, but with a voice well modulated and even:

"I think I've made a good deal of an ass of myself. I think I may safely
be cast for that role in future. Most people, including yourself, think
I'm fitted for it; and most people, and yourself, are right. And I'll
admit it now by taking the liberty of asking you whom you were with in
Baltimore."

"None of your damned business!" said Dysart, wheeling short on him.

"Perhaps not. I did not believe it at the time, but I do now.... And her
brother is after you with a gun."

"What do you mean?"

"That you'd better get out of town unless you want an uglier scandal on
your hands."

Dysart stood breathing fast and with such effort that his chest moved
visibly as the lungs strained under the tension:

"Do you mean to say that drunken whelp suspects anything so--so wildly
absurd----"

"Which drunken whelp? There are several in town?"

Dysart glared at him, careless of what he might now believe.

"I take it you mean that little cur, Quest."

"Yes, I happen to mean Quest."

Dysart gave an ugly laugh and turned short on his heel: