He opened the letter gingerly, and read in his wife's schoolgirl handwriting:—
Dear Louis,—It's awfully good of you but I'm afraid I can't go with you to the 'Lyceum' to-morrow night so I return the ticket with many thanks, in case you want to give it to somebody else. Nevill has come home—why of course you saw him—and I am so happy and I want all my time for him.
I thought you'd like to know this. I'm sure he will be delighted to see you whenever you like to call.—Yours sincerely,
Molly Tyson.
P.S.—Thanks awfully for the lovely flowers. You can smell them all over the flat!
"Come here, you fool," he said gently.
But Mrs. Nevill Tyson was stamping her envelope with great deliberation and care. She handed it to him at arm's length and darted away. He heard her turning the key in her bedroom door with a determined click.
He read her letter over again twice. The ridiculous little phrases convinced him of the groundlessness of his suspicion. Punctuation would have argued premeditation, and premeditation guilt. "Nevill has come home—why of course you saw him." She had actually forgotten that Stanistreet had been there on the evening of his arrival.
He laughed so loud that Mrs. Nevill Tyson heard him in her bedroom.
An hour later he heard her softly unlocking her door. He smiled. She might be as innocent as she pleased, but she had made him make a cursed fool of himself, and he meant that she should suffer for that.