“The difference between right and wrong,” said Mr. Carteret. “Listen to me. You knew, I suppose, that Palfrey wanted to marry Edith’s sister Louise.” A look of wonder came into Evanston’s face. “No,” he said. “Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “he did. I know it, and when you saw him at their house and thought he was after Edith, you were barking up the wrong tree.” Evanston had risen, and was listening apprehensively. His face had grown white. “What has this to do with the case?” he demanded. “The afternoon that you speak of,” Mr. Carteret went on, “Louise told Palfrey that she was going to marry Witherbee. With that piece of news he went to your house, to the woman who had been his friend and confidante--your wife. He was a good deal cut up, and when he said good-by--you know he sailed for Europe the next day--I presume she was sorry for him, and, being a generous woman, an impulsive woman, she showed her sympathy; she kissed him as you would kiss a broken-hearted child.” Evanston made a strange gesture, as if to put away by a physical action the thoughts that were forcing themselves into his mind. “No,” he said huskily; “it isn’t true, it can’t be true.” “Do you think I would come to you with a lie?” said Mr. Carteret. “But you weren’t there,” said Evanston. “How do you know?” “Neither were you,” said Mr. Carteret. “Why didn’t you go in like a man and find out your mistake?” For a time Evanston made no answer. Then his voice sank to a whisper. “I was afraid,” he said. “If I had gone in I was out of my head.” He dropped into his chair again, and turned his face away. His body shook convulsively, but he made no sound. Carteret stepped awkwardly to the terrace balustrade and stood gazing at the sunset. The silence lasted for several minutes. Then Evanston spoke; his voice was still uncertain. He rose and walked unsteadily toward the balustrade. “Carty,” he said, “I believe you. What shall I do? It’s awful,” he muttered; “it’s awful.” “It’s awfully lucky,” said Mr. Carteret, “that we have straightened things out.” Evanston shook his head wearily. “But we haven’t,” he said; “we can’t. It’s too late.” “Look here,” said Mr. Carteret, impatiently, “don’t be an ass.” “But don’t you understand,” said Evanston. “If what you say is true,--and I believe you,--then I have acted--” he stopped and thought for the right words, but they did not come. “I left her that afternoon without a word. A week later, without explanation, I came back, and for two years I have treated her--God knows how I have treated her!” he murmured. “If she did care for me at the first,” he went on, “if she cared for me after the failure, the end of it must have come when I went away and came back as I did. And now to put an obstacle in the way of her freedom, to try to buy her again, would be the act of a blackguard.” “But suppose she loves you?” said Mr. Carteret. “That,” said Evanston, “is impossible.”