"Yes," he said, "I suppose I understand what you say. I feel very much bewildered."
"Would you like to read the letters?"
"I have read one; I must face the others."
"You will give me your word of honour to destroy nothing?"
"Yes." His voice was low, almost inaudible.
John, pitying his utter desolation, stepped quietly out of the room, and, leaving the door open, seated himself in the boudoir. He had been there perhaps three minutes, when Beecher Monmouth looked in at him. His expression was utterly tragic.
"I should like to close the door, Mr. Treves, if you don't mind."
"Certainly," said John. He was something of a judge of men; he had accepted the elder man's word, and for ten further minutes he remained seated.
During that time Beecher Monmouth stood alone in his wife's brilliantly decorated bedchamber, and strewn about the rose-grey carpet lay the letters which meant the end of all happiness, which for him meant tragedy and darkness unutterable. He went down on his knees, and, with shaking hands, gathered up the strewn sheets. Then, dropping into a low chair near the dressing-table, he read, one after another, Kurt von Morgen's amorous letters to his wife. And in reading he pieced together, bit by bit, his wife's dark past. For the first time her utter shamelessness became known to him. And then, gradually, through the tragedy of his own wrecked life, he saw something that filled him with horror. He learnt, bit by bit, that his wife was not only faithless to him, but was faithless to his country as well. The woman he had adored and had sold his happiness to was a traitor—either that, or a spy in the enemy's pay.
As these things swept over him in great waves he clasped his hands to his head and swayed back and forth in a very agony of horrified shame. Presently, like a man in a dream, he rose and walked unsteadily across the floor. Quite neatly, and with a sort of mechanical carefulness, he had replaced all the letters and documents back in the box, and now, carrying the box under his arm, he went unsteadily over the carpet. He drew open a drawer of the little cabinet near his bed, and took out a beautiful plated ivory-handled Colt pistol. Then he took in a deep breath, assured himself that the pistol was loaded and clicked it shut again. He moistened his lips with his tongue, looked at the weapon for a moment with dazed eyes, and slipped it into his pocket. This done, he turned, and with steps that were steady and resolute, crossed the room and drew open the door of the boudoir.