The young man’s flushed and anxious face grew deadly pale. He turned his eyes from the inquisitor to the high blank light pouring in from the large window. “God knows,” he said, “that is what I cannot explain—or rather, I should say, the devil knows!” he cried with vehemence. “I was entirely off my guard—thinking, heaven knows, of nothing less.”
“The devil is a safe sort of agency to put the blame on. We cannot in ordinary affairs accept him as the scapegoat, Mr. Leigh—excuse me for saying so. I will not refuse to say that I allow there may be excuses for you, with a woman much alive to her own interests and ready for any venture. You did write to her, however, on the day you left?”
“I wrote to her, telling her the arrangement I had proposed to my wife, in the very letter which she has sent to you—that I would carry it out at once, and that I hoped she would perceive, as I did, that it was impossible we should remain under the same roof, or, indeed, meet again.”
“That was on what date?”
“The evening before my child’s funeral. Next day, as soon as it was over, I left the house, and have never set foot in it again.”
“Yet this lady, to whom you had, you say, sent such a letter, was at the funeral, and stood at the child’s grave leaning on your arm.”
“More than that,” cried Aubrey, with a gasp of his labouring breath, “she came up to me as I stood there and put her arm, as if to support me, within mine.”
The Colonel could not restrain an exclamation. “By Jove,” he said, “she is a strong-minded woman, if that is true. Do you mean to say that this was after she had your letter?”
“I suppose so. I sent it to her in the morning. I was anxious to avoid any scene.”
“And then, on your way to London, on that day, you went to your solicitors, and gave instructions in respect to Miss Lance’s annuity—which you say now had been determined on long before?”