"From the bottom of my heart I thank you for those words," he said earnestly. "I am glad to know my wife has one friend, at least, in Littlefield, who is able to believe in her innocence."
"She has more than one, sir," returned Anstice significantly, as Carstairs withdrew his hand. "Sir Richard Wayne is as firmly convinced as I that Mrs. Carstairs has been the victim of a cruel injustice. And——"
"Sir Richard? Ah, yes, he was always a true friend to Chloe." He spoke absently and for a second said no more. Then he suddenly bent forward resolutely. "Dr. Anstice, I see you are to be trusted. Well, you have doubtless heard that I left my wife because I could not bring myself to acquit her of the charge brought against her. I don't know how much you may have learned, but I give you my word the evidence against her was—or appeared to be—overwhelming."
"So I have heard." Anstice's tone was strictly non-committal, and after a glance at his impassive face Carstairs went on speaking.
"You must forgive me for reminding you that Mrs. Carstairs never categorically denied the charges made. That is to say, she implied that any such denial was, or should be, unnecessary; and it seemed as though her pride forbade her realizing how unsatisfactory her silence was—to others."
"Forgive me, Major Carstairs." Anstice took advantage of a momentary pause. "May I not just suggest that a categorical denial was unnecessary? Surely to anyone who knew her, Mrs. Carstairs' silence must have been sufficient refutation of the charge?"
He was almost sorry for his impulsive words when he noted their effect. Major Carstairs' naturally florid complexion turned grey; and his whole face grew suddenly aged. In that moment Anstice felt that his speech, with its implied rebuke, had been both impertinent and unjust; yet he hardly knew how to repair his error without committing still another breach of good taste.
Accordingly he said nothing; and after a moment had passed Major Carstairs spoke with something of an effort.
"I am glad to see my wife has found a champion in you," he said, with a smile which Anstice felt to be forced. "And even although as a partisan of hers you naturally think me cruel and unjust, may I ask you to believe that I would give years—literally years—of my life to be able to think myself mistaken in my first judgment of that unhappy affair!"
The note of passion in the last words moved Anstice powerfully; and he forgot his own delicate position in a sudden quite unusual desire to justify himself.