"The reports we had about his conduct," defended Conscience with a straightforward glance, "were grossly untrue. He suffered the effects of the circumstantial out of consideration for her."
"Indeed!" Tollman's voice was one of quickened interest, seemingly of pleased surprise. He was developing an excellent facility in the actor's art. "That is gratifying news. One likes to think well of an old friend, but how did you learn?"
The woman bit her lip. She had made her assertion in so categorical a form that to withhold her authority now meant to appear absurd, and she had not wished to betray the confidence of Marian Holbury. So she fell back on the alternative of a partial explanation.
"Mrs. Holbury herself explained the matter to me. It was a chapter of accidental appearances."
Tollman was gazing at his wife with brows incredulously arched but his scepticism appeared amused—almost urbane.
"But where in the world did you and Mrs. Holbury meet? Your orbits have no points of contact."
"She was driving to Provincetown—and stopped here."
"Ah!" Tollman might have been pardoned in making further inquiries, but already his plan of proceeding cautiously had seemed to supply him with such valuable points of evidence that he meant to continue the fruitful policy, so he contented himself with the casual inquiry, "Was this recently?"
"No, it was about two years ago."
Two years ago and until now she had never mentioned it! Then she had, through at least one ambassador, held communication with her lover. A moment ago she had declared herself without news of him. The woman whom he had trusted was at heart unfaithful. It was just as well that he had decided to assume the rôle of the blind man. Now he would proceed further and devise a trap into which she should unwittingly walk and from which there should be no escape.