“Oh, very well then, Everard,” she said hotly. “You can go on being a fool as long as you like. I saw your wife struggling in this man’s embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or three strange coincidences have been forced upon my notice. For your sake I have been excessively anxious. My conscience tells me I ought to take you into my confidence, and I can do no more. You can see the Christian name of this Bazouge in the Visitors’ List, and adopt what course of action you think fit. I wash my hands of the whole matter. And I must say that from the very beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with the greatest want of consideration.” The Canon did not heed the peroration. He stood with the flimsy sheet clenched in his hand and regarded her sternly. She shrank a little, for her soul seemed to be naked. “You have tried to ferret this out through spite against Yvonne. Whether the horrible thing you imply is true or not, I shall find it hard to forgive you.” Mrs. Winstanley shrugged her shoulders. “In either case, you will come to your senses, I hope. Meanwhile, considering the present relations, it might be pleasanter not to meet at dinner to-night.” “I am sorry to have to agree with you, Emmeline,” said the Canon. She made him a formal bow and was leaving the room; but his voice stopped her. “Your anxiety cannot be very great, or you would wait to learn whether your suspicions are baseless or not.” She paused, in a dignified attitude, with her hand on the back of a chair, while he adjusted his gold pince-nez and ran through the list. “You are right so far,” he said coldly. “The names are identical.” They parted at the door. The Canon walked back to his hotel with anger in his heart. In spite of cumulative evidence, the theory that his cousin had insinuated was prima facie preposterous. It was important enough, however, to need some investigation. But the feeling uppermost in his mind was indignation with Mrs. Winstanley. He was too shrewd a man not to have perceived long ago her jealousy of Yvonne; but beyond keeping a watchful eye lest his wife should receive hurt, he had not condescended to take it into serious consideration. Now, beneath her impressive manner he clearly divined the desire to inflict on Yvonne a deadly injury. To have leaped at such a conclusion, to have sought subsequent proof from the Visitors’ List, argued malicious design. He could never forgive her. Still the matter had to be cleared up at once. On his arrival at the Océan, he went forthwith to Yvonne’s room, and entered on receiving an acknowledgment of his knock. She was standing in the light of the window by the toilet table, doing her hair. The rest of the room was in the shadow of the gathering evening. “Well,” she said, without turning, “are they coming?” The grace of her attitude, the intimacy of the scene, the pleasantness of her greeting, made his task hateful.