Straker's smile paid tribute to her crowning cleverness. He didn't know how much permanence she attached to matrimony, or to Mr. Higginson, but he knew that she had considered him in that preposterous relation. She faced him and his awful knowledge and floored him with just that—the thing's inherent, palpable absurdity. And if that wasn't clever of her!——
"Of course not." He was eager in his assent; it was wrung from him. He added with apparent irrelevance, "After all, he's honest."
"You must be something."
She turned to him, radiant and terrible, rejoicing in her murderous phrase. It intimated that only by his honesty did Mr. Higginson maintain his foothold on existence.
"I think," said Straker, "it's time to dress for dinner."
They turned and went slowly toward the house. On the terrace, watch in hand, Mr. Higginson stood alone and conspicuous, shining in his single attribute of honesty.
That evening Furnival sought Straker out in a lonely corner of the smoke-room. His face was flushed and defiant. He put it to Straker point-blank.
"I say, what's she up to, that friend of yours, Miss T-Tarrant?"
He stammered over her name. Her name excited him.
Straker intimated that it was not given him to know what Miss Tarrant might or might not be up to.