When this was borne in upon her, she stopped speaking, and involuntarily fixed her clear, accusing eyes on her husband. All at once her suspicions of the changed relations between Crane and Senator Bicknell, and Crane and Governor Sanders, became a certainty. In a moment of inspiration--the inspiration of an intelligent honesty--the probable state of affairs flashed upon her. She remained silent for a time; they were seated alone at the tea-table, in the garden, and the August sunset was at hand. Crane’s countenance grew anxious as Annette watched him. “Did the Senator say he had got my letter?” he asked. “He expressly said he had not heard from you,” replied Annette. “Did you go away from home to avoid the Senator?” It was but a chance shot, but it hit the bull’s eye. Crane did not answer the question, but got up and walked to the other end of the garden. They were sitting and talking in the very spot where Annette had so successfully entertained the Senator the afternoon before. She could not, of course, know the details, but she knew then that Crane was a traitor, and was pretending a goodwill which he was far from feeling. Annette suffered as only a high-minded woman can suffer when the lower man in one she loves reveals itself. But she said nothing. She knew that Crane must work out his own salvation, and that she could be of no help to him there. And Crane, having a guilty conscience, knew that Annette suspected the game he was playing; and this made him more unhappy but not less guilty than before. Annette had told Crane of Constance Maitland’s invitation to them, which piqued as much as it gratified him. He knew quite well that but for Annette he would have had no invitation. Later on came a note from Constance repeating the invitation very cordially, but Annette felt obliged to decline it with all the thanks in the world. So the summer passed for those two. For Thorndyke the summer was, first, one long anticipation of that visit he was to pay Constance, and then, one long retrospection of it. He had enjoyed every moment of it, although the beginning was inauspicious. When he changed trains at Washington to go into Virginia, whom should he find in the Pullman with him but Mince Pie Mulligan, who greeted him effusively. Thorndyke carefully concealed his destination from Mr. Mulligan, but the junior Senator was by no means so secretive. “I’ll tell you where I’m going,” he said, in the friendly juxtaposition of the smoker. “I’m going to a place up in Virginia to see that stunning woman I met in Washington, Miss Maitland. Never saw her but once, but, by Jove, that was enough to make me want to see her again. I’ve found out where she is spending the summer, and I’m going there just to do a little prospecting.” Mr. Mulligan had abandoned the violent brogue which he had used on a former occasion, and spoke pretty fair English, but his mouth was as wide and his hair was as red as ever.