She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in.
"Tony!" she called.
He rejoined her almost as she spoke.
"Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to you."
"What is it?" she asked.
He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him.
"My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead."
"Dead?"
She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her cheeks.
"She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord knows!"