“I am afraid I don’t understand—” he began.
“Don’t lie,” she interrupted curtly. “You do understand. This is your vengeance—very subtle and very crafty. Everything has turned out exactly as you planned. You have broken us, Wingrave! I thought myself a clever woman, but I might as well have tried to gamble with the angels. Why don’t you finish it off now—make me run away with you?”
“It would bore us both,” he answered calmly. “Besides, you wouldn’t come!”
“I should, and you know that I would,” she answered. “Everyone expects it of us. I think myself that it would be more decent.”
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“You are a strange woman,” he said. “I find it hard sometimes to understand you.”
“Then you are a fool,” she declared in a fierce little whisper. “You know what is underneath all my suffering, all my broken pride! You know that I was fool enough to keep the flame flickering—that I have cared always and for no one else!”
He stopped the carriage.
“You are the most original woman I ever met,” he said quietly. “I neither wish to care nor be cared for by anyone. Go home to your husband, and tell him to buy Treadwells up to six.”
That same afternoon Wingrave met Aynesworth and cut him dead. Something in the younger man’s appearance, though, perplexed him. Aynesworth certainly had not the air of a successful man. He was pale, carelessly dressed, and apparently in ill health. Wingrave, after an amount of hesitation, which was rare with him, turned his car towards Battersea, and found himself, a few minutes later, mounting the five flights of stone steps. Juliet herself opened the door to him. She gave a little gasp when she saw who it was, and did not immediately invite him to enter.