“Why, you looked as if--don’t you b’lieve I’ve been playin’ bridge?” “Of course I do. Really, Fritz, how absurd you are!” It was evident that he, too, was not quite easy to-night. If he had a conscience, surely it was pricking him. Fierce anger flamed up again suddenly in Lady Holme, and the longing to lash her husband. Yet even this anger did not take away the anxiety that beset her, the wish that she had not done the crazy thing. The fact of her husband’s return before Leo’s arrival seemed to have altered her action, made it far more damning. To have been found with Leo would have been compromising, would have roused Fritz’s anger. She wanted to rouse his anger. She had meant to rouse it. But when she looked at Fritz she did not like the thought of Leo walking in at this hour holding the latch-key in his hand. What had Fritz done that night to Rupert Carey? What would he do to-night if--? “What the deuce is up with you?” Lord Holme drew in his legs, sat up and stared with a sort of uneasy inquiry which he tried to make hard. She laughed quickly, nervously. “I’m tired, I tell you. It was awfully hot at the opera.” She put some more ice into the lemonade, and added: “By the way, Fritz, I suppose you locked up all right?” “Locked up what?” “The front door. All the servants have gone to bed, you know.” No sooner had she spoken the last words than she regretted them. If Leo did get in they took away all excuse. She might have pretended he had been let in. He would have had to back her up. It would have been mean of her, of course. Still, seeing her husband there, Leo would have understood, would have forgiven her. Women are always forgiven such subterfuges in unfortunate moments. What a fool she was to-night! “That don’t matter,” said her husband, shortly. “But--but it does. You know how many burglaries there are. Why, only the other night Mrs. Arthur came home from a ball and met two men on the stairs.” “I pity any men I found on my stairs,” he returned composedly, touching the muscle of his left arm with his right hand. He chuckled. “They’d be sorry for themselves, I’ll bet,” he added. He put down his cigarette and took out another slowly, leisurely. Lady Holme longed to strike him. His conceited composure added fuel to the flame of her anxiety. “Well, anyhow, I don’t care to run these risks in a place like London, Fritz,” she said almost angrily. “Have you locked up or not?” “Damned if I remember,” he drawled. She did not know whether he was deliberately trying to irritate her or whether he really had forgotten, but she felt it impossible to remain any longer in uncertainty. “Very well, then, I shall go down and see,” she said. And she laid the book of poems on a table and prepared to get up from the sofa. “Rot!” said Lord Holme; “if you’re nervous, I’ll go.” She leaned back. “Very well.” “In a minute.” He struck a match and let it out. “Do go now, there’s a good dog,” she said coaxingly.