“Then you couldn’t have heard more than about six words. I said I’d be with him . . .” “And wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t it enough when I knew he wanted you? I’m not jealous; I’m terrified! Don’t I know what he said to you? He’s in trouble and he wants to drag you into it. But he shan’t, he shan’t!” I sat down by Barbara’s side and told her, so far as I could remember, word for word all that O’Rane had said to me. “You know what Fleet Street rumours are,” I ended, though I felt it was unfortunate that this rumour of rioting in Hampstead had followed so disquieting soon on Sonia’s jaunty account of her meeting with Griffiths. “If there weren’t danger, you wouldn’t think it necessary to go. It’s no good lying to me, George. I’ve lived with you too long not to know something about you. I ask you to stay.” “If Raney could see for himself . . .,” I began. “Let some one _else_ go!” Though I could not tell Barbara, I remembered vividly the night when I had sat alone in that room, begging O’Rane to come and keep me company. I remembered, too, his characteristic promise that he would see me through to the grave and beyond. “He’s never asked me to do anything for him before. I’ve promised; and I’m afraid I can’t go back on it.” Barbara stood up as though she were going to rejoin her guests. Physically she was in control of herself and could walk without difficulty or apparent pain; mentally she seemed to be on the verge of a collapse. “Four and a half,” she muttered at the door. “Four and a half what?,” I asked. “Four and a half years since _you_ made certain promises to _me_. Four and a half years since we were married. David has only to raise his little finger . . .” “This is hardly the time to hold a _post mortem_ on our marriage,” I said. “And I’m hardly the person?,” she taunted. “I didn’t say that.”