The door was opened by the man who had helped to eject Spicer. He did not seem in the least surprised to see Jones.
“Pay that taxi,” said Jones.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the flunkey.
Jones turned to the breakfast-room. The faint smell of coffee met him at the door as he opened it. There were no servants in the room. Only a woman quietly breakfasting with the Life of St. Thomas à Kempis by her plate.
It was Venetia Birdbrook.
She half rose from her chair when she saw Jones. He shut the door. The sight of Venetia acted upon him almost as badly as the word “Sunday” had done.
“What are you doing here?” said he. “I know—you and that lot had me tucked away in a lunatic asylum; now you have taken possession of the house.”
Venetia was quite calm.
“Since the house is not yours,” said she, “I fail to see how my presence here affects you. We know the truth. Dr. Simms has arrived at the conclusion that your confession was at least based on truth. That you are what you proclaimed yourself to be, a man named Jones. We thought you were mad, we see now that you are an impostor. Kindly leave this house or I will call for a policeman.”
Jones’ mind lost all its fire. Hatred can cool as well as inflame and he hated Venetia and all her belongings, including her dowager mother and her uncle the duke, with a hatred well based on reason and fact. All his fear of mind disturbance should he go on playing the part of Rochester had vanished, the fires of tribulation had purged them away.