A plan presented itself with the fully formulated swiftness of an inspiration. He would arrange a meeting between his wife and Farquaharson. He, himself, seemingly unsuspicious and fatuously trustful of demeanor, would observe them. He would throw them together—and when the truth was indisputably proven he would act.
Already the terrific force of the purely circumstantial was at work; a force which has sent innocent men by scores to prison and the scaffold. To the man who was to be both prosecutor and judge the links seemed to be joining nicely. Then with the force of a climax, a climax for which even he was unprepared, Conscience said, "Will you be using the car Monday?"
"I had meant to. Why?"
"I thought I'd go to Providence for some shopping. However, I can go by train."
Providence! Monday! The place and day of Stuart Farquaharson's opening with his comedy in three acts.
Yesterday such a suspicion would have seemed impossibly absurd. To-day he realized that yesterday he had been a blind fool.
"Do you mind my going with you?" He made the suggestion in a tentative, almost indifferent fashion. "I have some business with my bank there. I sha'n't be in your way."
That should give her pause, he thought, craftily pleased with himself. It should drive her back upon self-betrayal or a plausible objection. Incidentally it should indicate to her that he suspected nothing.
"I should be glad to have you go," she declared at once. "I want your opinion on hangings and furniture for the new guest room."