“You know,” she said gently, “of course you remember—I was married to Edred at St. Antony’s last year. You gave me away.”
He looked at her keenly. Then at last he said slowly:
“Haven’t you really found out? Do you still believe in that farce? Why have you followed him about all these weeks? Oh! I know. I did it well, didn’t I?” he laughed. “You behind him, I behind you, night after night. I’m a cute chap. When I was in the City the firm always gave me little delicate jobs like that to do. I can ferret out anything. And I can tell you this—she’s beginning to suspect.”
“She?”
“His wife. Come. You must know—you must have known for a long time. I found it out nearly a year ago. The little woman he dined with to-night. I was there too. What on earth made you give the waiter half a quid? Hadn’t you less in your pocket?”
He wasn’t mad. She was—the world was. It was a bewitched night, a topsy-turvy universe. She wasn’t afraid of him any longer; he was sane enough, the little wriggling, contemptible reptile. He was sane, he was speaking the absolute truth. She sat down again.
“Tell me everything,” she said. “Please tell me everything. I thought that woman was—but—it is I. Will you please explain—everything.”
Sutton began to explain. He seemed to enjoy the task. He sat and talked and nursed his knee and glanced ardently, hopefully, from time to time, at the attractive, agonized face in front of him.
“It’s a nice little complication,” he said. “Of course when Edred married you he thought that she was dead. He’s not a fool; he wouldn’t have walked into a trap blindfold. He married her some years ago, before you ever met him. They had a baby. It died and she went off her head. They took her away to the asylum. Then, after a bit, he had an official notice that she was dead. He was jolly glad, of course; any fellow would be. Fancy a man being tied up to a cracked wife! Well! To cut a long story short, she wasn’t dead at all. It was somebody else—one of the blessed bungles of the asylum. It was a regular scandal in all the papers. She’s very much alive. She’s out, cured, as sane as you are, except for a rum look in her eyes now and then, which I should funk if I were her husband. He’s taken a little place for her at Mildmay Park. He says he’s a commercial traveler. But she’s cunning; she smells a rat.”
“And she’s his wife?” Pamela said stonily.