Tristram thought he saw something peculiar but was still in doubt, and, with his English self-control and horror of a scene, he followed his wife to the door, as she was walking rapidly ahead, and there helped her into the waiting automobile.
But as she put up her arm, in stepping in, the folded paper fell to the brightly lighted pavement and he picked it up.
He must have some explanation. He was choking with rage. There was some mystery, he was being tricked.
"Why did you not tell me you knew that fellow who sat next to you?" he said in a low, constrained voice.
"Because it would have been a lie," she said haughtily. "I have never seen him but once before in my life."
"Then what business have you to allow him to write notes to you?" Tristram demanded, too overcome with jealousy to control the anger in his tone.
She shrank back in her corner. Here it was beginning again! After all, in spite of his apparent agreement to live on the most frigid terms with her he was now acting like Ladislaus: men were all the same!
"I am not aware the creature wrote me any note," she said. "What do you mean?"