"One moment, Dr. Anstice." His tone was less openly hostile. "Don't go yet, please. There are still one or two things to be said between us. Will you do me the favour of sitting down again and letting us talk a little?"
"I don't see what good will come of it, but I'll stay if you wish." Anstice returned to the table, and drawing out a chair—the one which Iris had occupied during the meal—he sat down and lighted a cigarette with a slightly defiant air.
"To begin with"—Cheniston spoke abruptly—"I gather you know my sister's story—know the bitter injustice that has been done to her in this damned place?"
Rather taken aback Anstice hesitated before replying, and Cheniston continued without waiting for him to speak:
"I say you know it, because my sister has a code of honour which forbids her welcoming to her house anyone who is ignorant of that horrible chapter in her history. And since I find you here, not only as a doctor, but as a friend, I gather you believe she was innocent of the charge against her."
"Most certainly I believe in Mrs. Carstairs' innocence." He spoke warmly now.
"For that, at least, I am grateful to you." His tone did not betray overwhelming gratitude, yet Anstice felt a sudden lightening of his spirit. "To me, of course, it is absolutely inconceivable how anyone could believe my sister guilty of such a degrading crime—or series of crimes—but doubtless I am biassed in her favour. Still, you are a new acquaintance, and don't know her as I do; so that I am grateful to you for your clear-sightedness in the matter."
He broke off for a moment to drink some wine. Then:
"I should like to ask you one question. Does my sister know of that episode in India? I mean, of course, of your share in the affair?"
"No. And," said Anstice, "it has been puzzling me for the last couple of hours to understand how it is that she has not connected my name with you. Didn't she know it at the time?"