"Yes, I do ask you 'Why.' Mac, this thing has tortured me for many nights now. I suspected you and I can't rest till you tell me the truth. And you don't leave this room till you do."
MacFarlane uttered a tremendous growl, rose heavily and stamped furiously 'round the room.
"Christ!" he almost shrieked, wheeling suddenly to glare at Hector, chest heaving, face aflame. "Do I need to tell you? My soul, you've got gall! What happened in this room while I was away?"
It was out now!
He expected to see his companion flinch; but, except for the slightest tightening of the jaw, Hector's face gave no sign. Instead, he rose slowly and walked over until he was face to face with MacFarlane, looking down on him.
"You ask, 'What happened?' I'll tell you. Your wife lost her way returning from the Quadrille Club. Wandered 'round until exhausted. Finally stumbled on my quarters, the only place showing a light. She was nearly frozen. I gave her brandy and warmed her up. Then my servant, Blythe, took her home. If you wish to descend to such evidence"—this was a two-edged shaft, though Hector did not know it, and it seared MacFarlane's soul—"you can ask him if this isn't so. Or ask your wife."
MacFarlane seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.
"Surely, Mac, you can trust me. You've known me twenty years and never have you had cause——"
"No, I don't trust you! I can't trust you! Haven't I eyes, ears, senses? I don't believe you! I know what passed in this room. Your excuse is a lie—do you hear?—a lie!"
"Mac, you call me treacherous—in effect, you do—a false friend—the lowest animal on earth. And yet you've no proof. On the other hand, you admit treachery to me. How can you reconcile the two?"