“It ought to be impossible,” said Mr. Carteret. “If she poisoned you any jury would acquit her; but, fortunately for us, women are not logical.” “No,” said Evanston again; “it is impossible.” “That is your view of it,” said Mr. Carteret. “Would anything convince you that you are wrong?” Evanston was silent a moment. Then he smiled bitterly. “If the thoughts she had about me in those days,” he began,--“in those days after I had come home,--if they could come back like ghosts, and should tell me that all that time she cared for me, in spite of what I was and did--” He paused. “Then of course it is impossible,” said Mr. Carteret, dryly. He turned away toward the sunset again and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past seven. In the last twenty-five minutes his hopes had flown high and fallen dead. Evanston’s point of view was beyond his comprehension. He felt that the man was mad, and that he had come upon a fool’s errand. He turned back toward Evanston. “I must be going,” he said. At that moment a servant came from the house and approached them. “Mr. Whitehouse is on the telephone, sir,” the man said to Evanston. “He says his cook has been taken suddenly ill, and may he come to dine to-night and bring Professor Blake.” Evanston looked helplessly at Mr. Carteret. “That’s odd,” he said, “isn’t it?” “He evidently hasn’t heard,” said Mr. Carteret. “Evidently,” said Evanston. “But why shouldn’t he come?” he added. He turned to the man. “Tell Mr. Whitehouse that Mrs. Evanston and myself will be glad to have him and Professor Blake.” The man bowed and went back to the house. “It’s better that way,” continued Evanston. “We’ll have a party. I don’t know who Blake is; but Whittlesea’s coming down, and you’ll stay.” “I can’t; I have no clothes,” said Mr. Carteret. “That doesn’t matter,” said Evanston. “No,” said Mr. Carteret, “I must go. I’m of no use here.” “Don’t say that,” said Evanston. He held out his hand. “Carty, you are the only human being that understands or wants to understand.” “Then,” said Mr. Carteret, “I’ll stay.” It was nine o’clock, and they had finished dinner. From the dining-room the men went to the library to smoke, and Whitehouse’s friend, the Professor, began to talk. He was an Orientalist, and had recently discovered a buried city on the plateau of Iran. Mr. Carteret was not interested in buried cities, so he smoked and occupied himself with his own thoughts. From the distant part of the house came the music of a piano. He knew that it was Edith playing in the drawing-room. It occurred to him that it would be pleasant to go out upon the terrace and listen to the music. He was meditating the execution of this project when he saw Whittlesea slip out; the same idea had occurred to the lawyer.