'Yes.' He remained by the door with his hand on the knob.
'And you guessed who wrote it?'
'I have been told.' He answered her coldly and quietly.
'I know what you think,' she replied. 'But it's not true. I never told him the story. He knew it long ago—before you went back to Matanga—before I married him.' Her voice took a pleading tone. 'You will believe that, won't you?'
'It never occurred to me that you had told him. I know, in fact, who did. But even if you had—well, you had the right to tell him.' Clarice gave a stamp of impatience. 'He is your husband.'
'My husband!' she interrupted, and she tore the newspaper across and dropped it on to the floor. 'My husband! Ah, I wouldn't have believed that even he could have done a thing so mean. And, to add to the meanness of it, he went away yesterday, for a week. I know why, now; he dared not face me.' Then of a sudden her voice softened. 'But it's my fault too, in a way,' she went on. 'He knew the story a long time ago, and never used it. I don't suppose he would have used it now, if I hadn't—since your election—let him see—' She broke off the sentence, and took a step nearer to Drake. 'Stephen, I meant to let him see.'
Drake drew himself up against the door. It would be no longer of any service to her, he thought, if he left England and returned to Matanga. Something more trenchant was needed.
He reflected again that he filled no place which another could not fill, and the reflection took a wider meaning than it had done before. 'Yes,' he said; 'it's very awkward that it should all come out just now.'
Clarice stared at him in perplexity. 'Awkward that it should all come out,' she repeated vaguely; and then, with an accent of relief, 'You mean that it will injure the Company?'
'Not so much that. The Company can run without me—quite well now—I am certain of it.' He spoke as though he was endeavouring to assure himself of what he said.