At this moment the door opened and Irene herself entered the room. She was very calm, though pale, and she looked straight into his eyes. For a moment or two they regarded one another in silence, Gerard, with his back to the light of the window, still holding the photograph. “How do you come to be in this house?” he said, somewhat hoarsely.. “It is my own,” she answered steadily. “Mine and my husband’s.” “And this?” “Is our son,” said Irene. He looked at her, stupefied by anger and lacerated vanity. The photograph fell from his fingers on to the carpet. “You mean that he is your--protector,” he said. Irene’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I don’t know what your object in coming here is. I thought it was important business. I came down to spare my husband the possible pain of an interview. It seems that you have come to insult me. Hugh is my lawful husband. We were married three years ago. If your object was to learn this, you have attained it.” She spoke haughtily, drawing herself up in all her dignity. His presence offended her. Feminine delicacies rose in hot revolt within her. Yet she could not repress an almost savage thrill at the contrast between him and the man who was now her husband. How had she ever stupefied herself into the delusion that she loved him? He looked coarse and commonplace. A movement of his neck to free itself from pressure of the collar revealed a small mole, horribly familiar to her. She shuddered in all her being. Yet she faced him bravely. “If that is all,” she added, “we can spare each other the discomfort of further conversation.” “But it isn’t all, Irene,” he burst out, with genuine spirit. “I swear insult was the last thing in my thoughts. I never knew of this. I came to get your address from Colman--to ask your forgiveness. But I don’t understand. Tell me. Are you really his wife?” “I have already said so,” replied Irene. “If you are come to ask my forgiveness for your action towards me, I am prepared to grant it. But--I am Hugh’s wife.” “And seeing you his wife, I don’t understand. Unless I have been made an utter fool of a second time by a woman.” An ugly expression passed across his face. She looked so calm, self-contained; her whole attitude suggested aloofness. He began to feel his old discomfort in her presence, accentuated by the exasperating position in which he found himself. He cursed the day that turned his steps to Minna Hart. Had this been her revenge--this out and out mockery? “I owe you an apology,” he said grimly. “I left a woman calling herself Mrs. Colman in Nice--Minna Hart. She informed me that she had been secretly married to Colman. That he had spent the night of the murder with her. I came straight from Nice here to tell you of my remorse and to offer you reparation. It seems she was lying. I humbly apologise.” He laughed the short derisive laugh of indignation, and took three or four short impatient paces to and fro. Irene’s eyes flashed a second time.