“Not very well,” Mr. Cupples replied sadly. “In fact, far from well. I can tell you almost exactly what he said—it wasn’t much. He said, ‘See here, Cupples, you don’t want to butt in. My wife can look after herself. I’ve found that out, along with other things.’ He was perfectly quiet—you know he was said never to lose control of himself—though there was a light in his eyes that would have frightened a man who was in the wrong, I dare say. But I had been thoroughly roused by his last remark, and the tone of it, which I cannot reproduce. You see,” said Mr. Cupples simply, “I love my niece. She is the only child that there has been in our—in my house. Moreover, my wife brought her up as a girl, and any reflection on Mabel I could not help feeling, in the heat of the moment, as an indirect reflection upon one who is gone.” “You turned upon him,” suggested Trent in a low tone. “You asked him to explain his words.” “That is precisely what I did,” said Mr. Cupples. “For a moment he only stared at me, and I could see a vein on his forehead swelling—an unpleasant sight. Then he said quite quietly, ‘This thing has gone far enough, I guess,’ and turned to go.” “Did he mean your interview?” Trent asked thoughtfully. “From the words alone you would think so,” Mr. Cupples answered. “But the way in which he uttered them gave me a strange and very apprehensive feeling. I received the impression that the man had formed some sinister resolve. But I regret to say I had lost the power of dispassionate thought. I fell into a great rage”—Mr. Cupples’s tone was mildly apologetic—“and said a number of foolish things. I reminded him that the law allowed a measure of freedom to wives who received intolerable treatment. I made some utterly irrelevant references to his public record, and expressed the view that such men as he were unfit to live. I said these things, and others as ill-considered, under the eyes, and very possibly within earshot, of half a dozen persons sitting on this veranda. I noticed them, in spite of my agitation, looking at me as I walked up to the hotel again after relieving my mind for it undoubtedly did relieve it,” sighed Mr. Cupples, lying back in his chair. “And Manderson? Did he say no more?” “Not a word. He listened to me with his eyes on my face, as quiet as before. When I stopped he smiled very slightly, and at once turned away and strolled through the gate, making for White Gables.” “And this happened—?” “On the Sunday morning.” “Then I suppose you never saw him alive again?” “No,” said Mr. Cupples. “Or rather yes—once. It was later in the day, on the golf-course. But I did not speak to him. And next morning he was found dead.” The two regarded each other in silence for a few moments. A party of guests who had been bathing came up the steps and seated themselves, with much chattering, at a table near them. The waiter approached. Mr. Cupples rose, and, taking Trent’s arm, led him to a long tennis-lawn at the side of the hotel.