“What has this to do with the case?” he demanded.
“The afternoon that you speak of,” Mr. Carteret went on, “Louise told Palfrey that she was going to marry Witherbee. With that piece of news he went to your house, to the woman who had been his friend and confidante—your wife. He was a good deal cut up, and when he said good-by—you know he sailed for Europe the next day—I presume she was sorry for him, and, being a generous woman, an impulsive woman, she showed her sympathy; she kissed him as you would kiss a broken-hearted child.”
Evanston made a strange gesture, as if to put away by a physical action the thoughts that were forcing themselves into his mind. “No,” he said huskily; “it isn’t true, it can’t be true.”
“Do you think I would come to you with a lie?” said Mr. Carteret.
“But you weren’t there,” said Evanston. “How do you know?”
“Neither were you,” said Mr. Carteret. “Why didn’t you go in like a man and find out your mistake?”
For a time Evanston made no answer. Then his voice sank to a whisper. “I was afraid,” he said. “If I had gone in I was out of my head.” He dropped into his chair again, and turned his face away. His body shook convulsively, but he made no sound. Carteret stepped awkwardly to the terrace balustrade and stood gazing at the sunset. The silence lasted for several minutes. Then Evanston spoke; his voice was still uncertain. He rose and walked unsteadily toward the balustrade.
“Carty,” he said, “I believe you. What shall I do? It’s awful,” he muttered; “it’s awful.”
“It’s awfully lucky,” said Mr. Carteret, “that we have straightened things out.”
Evanston shook his head wearily. “But we haven’t,” he said; “we can’t. It’s too late.”