“You married me because you loved me, because you gave to me all that a right-thinking woman would hold precious and sacred and because you expected me to give something in return. I have given you nothing. I humiliated you at the very outset by telling you why I had married you. You have the dubious satisfaction of knowing that I bear your name. You have, perhaps, half a suspicion that you live with one who is everlastingly critical of your actions and your intentions. Have I no responsibilities?” There was a long silence, then she said-- “Whatever you wish me to do I will always do.” “I wish you to be happy, that is all,” he replied. His voice was of the same hard, metallic tone which she had noted before. She flushed a little. It had been an effort for her to say what she had, and he had rebuffed her. He was within his rights, she thought. She left him, and did not see him till the morning, when they met at breakfast. They exchanged a few words of greeting, and both turned their attention to their newspapers. Edith read hers in silence, read the one column which meant so much to her from end to end twice, then she laid the paper down. “I see,” she said, “that our burglars rifled the Bank of the Northern Provinces last night.” “So I read,” he said, without raising his eyes from his paper. “And that one of them was shot by the armed guard of the bank.” “I’ve also seen that,” said her husband. “Shot,” she repeated, and looked at his bandaged arm. He nodded. “I think my paper is a later edition than yours,” he said gently. “The man that was shot was killed. They found his body in a taxi-cab. His name is not given, but I happen to know that it was a very pleasant florid gentleman named Persh. Poor fellow,” he mused, “it was poetic justice.” “Why?” she asked. “He did this,” said Gilbert Standerton, and pointed to his arm with a grim smile. CHAPTER XI. THE FOURTH MAN On the night of Gilbert Standerton’s little dinner party the black-bearded taxi driver, who had called at the house off Charing Cross Road for instructions, came to the door of No. 43, and was duly observed by the detective on duty. He went into the house, was absent five minutes, and came out again, driving off without a fare. Ten minutes later, at a signal from the detective, the house was visited by three C.I.D. men from Scotland Yard, and the mystery of the taxi-cab driver was cleared up for ever. For, instead of George Wallis, they discovered sitting at his ease in the drawing-room upstairs, and reading a novel with evident relish, that same black-bearded chauffeur. “It is very simple,” said Inspector Goldberg, “the driver comes up and George Wallis is waiting inside made up exactly like him. The moment he enters the door and closes it Wallis opens it, and steps out on to the car and drives off. You people watching thought it was the same driver returned.” He looked at his prisoner. “Well, what are you going to do?” asked the bearded man.