“I won’t keep you long,” answered Clara very gently. She was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Try as she would, she could not restrain it. Her face became crimson, and her features worked. She struggled hard with this convulsion of nature. Presently it passed, but not until the handkerchief which she had pressed to her lips was stained with blood. Tarbot stood a few feet away regarding her, and his face wore a malignant scowl. Clara slipped her handkerchief into her pocket, and sat down on the nearest chair, panting as she did so. “You are ill,” said Tarbot. “When you have done your business here as witness at the trial, you had better go to Algiers for the winter.” “We will leave that matter for the present,” said Clara. “I wish to tell you now that I know exactly what you have done.” “What I have done?” “Yes. You have just had an interview with Lady Pelham.” “What is that to you?” “A great deal. I am your wife. I happened to see you just now.” “So you played the spy?” “I did, Luke, and I am not ashamed. I opened the door softly. You were too much occupied to notice me. I saw when you took her in your arms—you, who are another woman’s husband—kissed her. She repelled you, as a good woman should. I have not a word to say against her, but for you, Luke, for you—this to me is—the very last straw.” “Never mind!” he said excitedly. “You shall go to Algiers when the trial is over. It will come on in a fortnight. The man has not a loophole of escape. The whole thing will sweep to its ghastly conclusion in a few weeks.” “Are you sure?” she asked. “Yes. What do you mean?” “I was only thinking of the ace of trumps.” “Again you talk in that ridiculous way. You made use of that expression before. What do you mean?” “You will know presently. Good-by, Luke.” “Where are you going?” “Out.” Clara did not say anything further. She went into the hall, opened the hall door, and let herself out. Walking somewhat unsteadily and feebly, swaying now and then from side to side, she got as far as the end of the street. Here she hailed a hansom, and desired the man to drive her to Paddington. When she got there she took the next train to Haversham. About half-way down the line she took a letter out of her pocket. It was directed to her husband. She gave it a queer look, and there was an ominous glitter in her eyes. When she reached a large junction she called a porter to her, gave him sixpence and asked him to post her letter. The man promised to obey. Clara sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief, and the train moved on. She arrived at Haversham late that evening. It was only a wayside station, and there were no cabs. She had to walk the entire distance to Great Pelham. The night was a wet one, and the heavy rain penetrated through Clara’s cloak. She was damp through and through. She reached the “Pelham Arms” about ten o’clock. When she got there she spoke to one of the waiters.