She knew herself, now, just as well as he did. He had shown her plainly enough, yet in the gentlest manner.
A moment later he was alone—agonisingly alone.
IV
Mrs. MacFarlane's white hands had set an avalanche going.
None had been more affected by Mr. Molyneux's propaganda than Mrs. MacFarlane's cook. Molyneux had laid the death of the Marquis at Hector's door. Alice loved the Marquis. She relied implicitly on everything she saw in print. The Prophet blamed Hector; accordingly, she hated him.
On the night when Mrs. MacFarlane visited Hector's quarters, the cook saw her go in and come out. Alice knew that her mistress was at least 'taken' with the Superintendent. She put two and two together and found her chance to hurt her enemy—as she regarded him.
When MacFarlane returned, Alice told him of what she had seen.
The avalanche started.
MacFarlane, desperately jealous, desperately in love, found excuses for his wife, none for Hector. In spite of all the evidence of his senses, he decided that Hector was to blame.
To trust his old comrade, who had never failed him yet—to put his suspicions before him, man to man, and abide by the result: this, the happiest solution, strangely, never occurred to him.