Then it was, though, that he had burst forth in a fury of suspicion and anger and had dealt not only with this matter of the car in Bergley Place but the one in Briscoe Park, the letters in the ashes and the matter of Naigly seeing her come out of the Deming, to say nothing of her writing to Raskoffsky for his picture. For it was Raskoffsky, of course, if it was anybody. He was as positive as to that as any one could be. Who else could it have been? He had not even hesitated to insist that he knew who it was—Raskoffsky, of course—and that he had seen him and had been able to recognize him from his pictures. Yet she had denied that vehemently—even laughingly—or that he had seen any one, or that there had been a car there for her. And she did show him a clipping a week later which said that Raskoffsky was in Italy. But if it wasn’t Raskoffsky then who was it—if it was any one. “For goodness’ sake, Gil,” was all she would say at that or any other time, “I haven’t been out with Raskoffsky or any one and I don’t think you ought to come in here and act as you do. It seems to me you must be losing your mind. I haven’t seen or heard of any old car. Do you think I could stand here and say that I hadn’t if I had? And I don’t like the way you have of rushing in here of late every little while and accusing me of something that I haven’t done. What grounds have you for thinking that I have done anything wrong anyhow? That silly picture of Raskoffsky that Alice sent for. And that you think you saw me in an automobile. Not another thing. If you don’t stop now and let me alone I will leave you I tell you and that is all there is to it. I won’t be annoyed in this way and especially when you have nothing to go on.” It was with that type of counter-argument that she had confronted him. Besides, at that time—the night that he thought he saw her in Bergley Place—and as if to emphasize what she was saying, Tickles in the bedroom had waked up and begun to call “Mama, Mama.” And she had gone in to him and brought him out even as she talked. And she had seemed very serious and defiant, then—very much more like her natural self and like a person who had been injured and was at bay. So he had become downright doubtful, again, and had gone back into the dining-room. And there was the light up and the book that she had been reading. And in the closet as he had seen when he had hung up his own coat was her hooded cape on the nail at the back where it always hung.