“There was no marriage,” she answered. “I was very foolish to have been deceived even for a moment. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man.”
“Did any one see you leave the flat?” he asked.
“I do not know. But David Courtlaw has been here. To-night they say he will be conscious. He will say who it was. So there is no escape. And listen, John.”
“Well?”
“I went from Anna’s flat to Nigel Ennison’s rooms. I told him the truth. I asked him to take me away, and hide me. He refused. He sent me home.”
Sir John’s head bent lower and lower. There was nothing left now of the self-assured, prosperous man of affairs. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. He looked no longer at his wife. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth.
There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Softly she rose to her feet. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine.
“Dear husband,” she murmured. “I am so very, very sorry. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all. But it is all over now, and presently there will be some one else. I should like to have had you forgive me.”
He did not move. He seemed to be thinking hard. She paused for a moment. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips.
“Good-bye, John,” she said simply.