“Then what makes you so positive that he wasn't her husband?”
The Major drew himself erect, smiling palely. “Because I am her husband.”
V
Hindwood rose and moved over to the window. He felt mentally stifled. He leaned out, gazing down into the pool of blackness, along whose floor, like the phosphorescence of fishes, lights drifted and darted. The sight of so much coolness quieted him. When he turned, the Major had not moved a muscle; he was sitting as he had left him, erect and palely smiling.
“You'll not be surprised when I tell you, Major Cleasby, that your last piece of information completely overwhelms me. You come to me in the rôle of a secret service agent, and now you claim to be her husband.”
“I'm both.”
“Do you mean me to understand that you're accumulating the evidence that will convict your wife?”
“Convict her and, I regret to say, hang her. Stated baldly, that is my purpose.”
Hindwood perched himself on the window ledge and regarded his guest intently. He didn't look a monster; he looked in all respects a kindly, well-bred gentleman, and yet, if what he had just heard was correct, there were few monsters in history who could compare with him. Hindwood tried to picture him as Santa's husband. He couldn't. He was thankful that he couldn't. For a reason which he did not distress himself to analyze, he didn't wish to believe that she had ever had a husband. As for the hints about her criminal record and her many lovers, he utterly rejected them. Was it likely that a woman so royal and aloof could have stooped to the gutter? But if these accusations were not true, what was their object? Either it was a case of mistaken identity and there were two Santa Gorlofs, or the object was to infuriate him with jealousy so that he would blurt out all he knew.
He eyed the Major doubtfully. He wasn't insane. He didn't look a rascal. And yet, what husband in his senses——? He began to notice details.