"By the way, where's the dagger she produced with such lightning sleight-of-hand last night?" Anstice put the question casually as he turned towards the door. "It would not be wise to leave it about, in case she felt like using it again!"
"It is hidden, at present, in my dressing-case," said Chloe. "I picked it up last night and flung it in there lest anyone should see it. But I agree it would be safer locked up; and I will give it to you, Leo, when I go upstairs."
"Yes, it will be better in my keeping," said Carstairs briskly. "Though I hope the madness which induced her to try to use it will have passed before long."
"We'll see how she is in the morning," said Anstice as he shook hands with Chloe. "I'll come round directly after breakfast, shall I? Quite possibly she will be herself again after a long sleep."
"Dr. Anstice"—Chloe retained his hand for a moment—"are you quite sure you don't regret agreeing with me over the possible hushing up of the affair? I'm afraid, after all, I made it rather hard for you to do anything but acquiesce just now. But if, after thinking it over, you decide that the story should be made public, well, I am quite ready to abide by your decision."
"No, Mrs. Carstairs." Anstice's tone was too sincere for her to doubt his genuineness. "For my own part I am more than ready to stand by my former verdict; and the final decision rests entirely with you. Only—perhaps I may be permitted to express my thankfulness that the problem has been solved—and my hope that you—and your husband—may find the future sufficiently bright to atone for the darkness of the past."
"Thank you," she said gently, and her eyes looked very soft. "At least my husband and I will never forget that we owe our happiness to you."
And with the words, cordially endorsed by Major Carstairs, ringing in his ears Anstice left Cherry Orchard and fared forth once more into the gloomy November night.
As he drove away he told himself that he was truly glad the mystery was elucidated at last. Yet even as he did so he knew that his own share in the matter gave him little satisfaction. He felt no elation at the turn of events. He told himself impatiently that he ought by rights to be jubilant, since it was owing to his efforts that Tochatti had been unmasked; but in spite of his honest endeavour to spur his flagging emotions his heart felt heavy in his breast, and there was no elation in his soul.
After all, he told himself wearily, the discovery of the truth meant very little to him. With Mrs. Carstairs the case was widely different; and he did rejoice, sincerely, in her happiness; but for himself, having lost Iris Wayne, all lesser events were of very little importance after all.