Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet.
“How long do you wish me to keep away?” she asked calmly.
“A few minutes only,” he answered. “You will find me here when Parkinson has shown you round.”
He held the door open and she passed out, with a single upward and wondering glance. Wingrave closed the door, and seated himself close to where Barrington was standing.
“Barrington,” he said, “twenty years ago we were friends. Since then we have been enemies. Today, so far as I am concerned, we are neither.”
Barrington started a little. His lips twitched nervously. He did not quite understand.
“I am sure, Wingrave—” he began.
Wingrave interrupted him ruthlessly.
“I give you credit,” he continued, “for understanding that my attitude towards you since I—er—reappeared, has been inimical. I intended you to speculate, and you did speculate. I meant you to lose, and you have lost. The money I lent to your wife was meant to remain a rope around your neck. The fact that I lent it to her was intended to humiliate you, the attentions which I purposely paid to her in public were intended to convey a false impression to society—and in this, too, I fancy that I have been successful.”
Barrington drew a thick breath—the dull color was mounting to his cheeks.