At last Carnthwacke laid both the portraits down together and stood up with an air of finality.
“Mrs. Carnthwacke, I rather fancy the moment to speak has come. Now, don't fuss yourself, but just tell these ladies and gentlemen what you have to say simply, same way as you did to me.”
It seemed at first, as Mrs. Carnthwacke appeared to struggle for breath and caught convulsively at her husband's hand, that she would not be able to speak at all. But his firm clasp drew her up. The magnetism of his gaze compelled her words.
“If that is Mr. Bechcombe,” she said very slowly, “that portrait, I mean, and if it is a really good likeness of him, I can only say”—she paused again and gulped something down in her throat—“that that is not the man I saw at the office, not the man to whom I gave my diamonds.”
A tense silence followed this avowal—a silence that was broken at last by a moan from Mrs. Bechcombe.
“What do you mean? What does she mean?”
There was another momentary silence, broken this time by John Steadman. He had remained standing since the Carnthwackes came in, on the other side of the table. He came round towards them now.
“I think you must give us a little further explanation, Mrs. Carnthwacke,” he said courteously.
Mrs. Carnthwacke was pressing the little ball that had been her handkerchief to her lips again. She turned from him with a quick gesture as though to shut him, the other guests, the whole room, out of her sight.
Her husband laid his hand on her shoulder, heavily yet with a certain comfort in its very contact.