"Really? The Accuser of the Brethren in the pulpit with a vengeance!"
The Duke stared. "I don't know what you mean."
"I am quite sure you don't. Stop talking, please. I am too ill to be worried."
"Rats," said Jim, elegantly; "you look like a picture.*
"Then permit me the privilege of one, and do not ask for replies."
The Duke strolled to the window in a huff, and surveyed his property with sulky looks. Leah sat up on her sofa and pondered as to how much she should say and how much leave unsaid. Jim had always been under the impression that Demetrius had done his dirty work for money, and the truth would not probably strike him as amusing. Leah could easily have conceived and told a pretty fairy tale, as she was always resourceful in the way of fiction; but the sight of his pink, fatuous face filled her with rage. Why should he be a beast with women, and she a vestal with men? Was not sauce for the gander sauce for the goose also? She determined to tell him the whole brutal affair, with certain reservations concerning the betrayal of Demetrius. Jim had few moral scruples, but what he had would be averse to the betrayal of an accomplice, however dangerous. Yes; she would tell him enough to annoy him, and shake him out of his aggravating complacency. Also she wanted some one in whom to confide. But how to bring up the subject again without pandering to her husband's desire to be master?
He gave her the chance immediately. Like a bulldog, Jim never let go of anything he had once gripped. Into his thick head had crept some idea of a mystery, connected with Southend and with his wife's visit thereto. Therefore he stared out of the window until he thought she was more amenable to reason, and then came back to his seat with the old question.
"Why did you go to Southend?" he asked, doggedly.
Leah, not yet ready, fenced. "I told you why I went."
"No, you didn't. Aksakoff says----"