His voice was quiet and very even, but Coningsby looked up with a quick frown.
"Confound you, Carey! What are you pulling a long face about this time of the morning? Better have a drink; it'll make you feel more sociable."
He spoke with sharp irritation. The hand that held the spirit-decanter was not over-steady. Carey watched him—coldly critical.
"That portrait over the mantelpiece," he said; "your wife, I think you told me?"
Coningsby swore a deep oath.
"I may have told you so. I don't often mention the subject. She is dead."
"I beg your pardon; I am forced to mention it." Carey's tone was deliberate, emotionless, hard. "That lady—the original of that portrait—is still alive, to the best of my belief. At least, she was not lost at sea on the occasion of the wreck of the Denver Castle five years ago."
"What?" said Coningsby. He turned suddenly white—white to the lips, and set down the decanter he was still holding as if he had been struck powerless. "What?" he said again, with starting eyes upon Carey's face.
"I think you understood me," Carey returned coldly. "I have told you because, upon consideration, it seemed to me you ought to know."
The thing was done and past recall, but deep in his heart there lurked a savage resentment against this man who had forced him to break his silence. He felt no sympathy with him; he only knew disgust.