She took a pinch of tobacco from the yellow package and a cigarette paper, and, sitting in a chair in the cool draught of the door opening on to the garden, with shaky fingers rolled a cigarette. “Sit down. You can smoke if you like. You can also help yourself to tea. I won’t have any.” Vandermeer poured himself out some tea and cut an enormous hunk of cake. “I warn you,” said he, drawing a chair within conversational distance, “that the story will be a long one—I want to begin from the beginning.” “Go ahead, for goodness’ sake,” said Clementina. Vandermeer was astute enough to conjecture that a sudden denunciation of Mrs. Fontaine might defeat his object by exciting her generous indignation; whereas by gradually arousing her interest in the affairs of Quixtus, the climactic introduction of the execrated lady might pass almost unrecognised. “The story has to do, in the first place,” said he, “with three men, John Billiter, Eustace Huckaby, and myself.” “Huckaby?” cried Clementina, startled. “What has he to do with you?” “The biggest blackguard of us all,” said Vandermeer. Clementina lay back in her chair, her attention caught at once. “Go on,” she said. Whereupon Vandermeer began, and with remorseless veracity—for here truth was far more effective than fiction—told the story of the relations of the three with Quixtus, in the days of their comparative prosperity, when he himself was on the staff of a newspaper, Billiter in possession of the fag-end of his fortune, and Huckaby a tutor at Cambridge. He told how, one by one, they sank; how Quixtus held out the helping hand. He told of the weekly dinners, the overcoat pockets. “Not a soul on earth but you three knew anything about it?” asked Clementina, in a quavering voice. “As far as I know, not a soul.” He told of the drunken dinner; of Quixtus’s anger; of the cessation of the intercourse; of the extraordinary evening when Quixtus had invited them to be his ministers of evil; of his madness; of his fixed idea to work wickedness; of his own suggestion as regards Tommy. “You infamous devil!” said Clementina, between her set teeth. In her wildest conjectures, she had never imagined so grotesque and so pitiable a history. She sat absorbed, pale-cheeked, holding the extinct stump of cigarette between her fingers. Vandermeer paid no attention to the ejaculation. He proceeded with his story; told of Billiter and the turf; of Huckaby and the heart-breaking adventure. “Oh, my God!” cried Clementina. “Oh, my God!” He told of the meetings in the tavern. Of the hunger and misery of the three. Of the plot to use a decoy woman in Paris, who was to bleed him to the extent of three thousand pounds. “What’s her name?” she cried, her lips parted in an awful surmise. “Lena Fontaine,” said Vandermeer. Clementina grew very white, and fell back into her chair. She felt faint. She had worked violently, she had felt violently since early morning. Vandermeer started up.