Esmé had the photograph which could brand Estelle before the world. He feared it, feared his wife. She came in now, dressed to go out.
"Esmé," he said hoarsely, "Esmé, do you know why people dropped you?"
"I have never known," she answered coldly. "Come, Bertie, are you more sensible to-day? Get out of my life and I'll let your girl's reputation be."
She was his wife, bore his name. He told her then, quickly, his brain reeling.
"They say that!" she cried wildly. "Denise let that lie pass. Denise knew, and let them say I stole."
There was no guilt in Esmé's storming, but a madness of rage, of blind, futile fury.
"Did you sell diamonds?" he asked. "Esmé, tell me the truth, and I'll see the slander buried. You are my wife."
"I did. I sold them," she flung out. "They have the evidence. But Denise gave them to me; she gave me money to buy silence. So that, too—that too! all for one thing. A thief to the world—a fallen woman to you. A thief! Oh, God! a thief!" Her hands were at her throat; she gasped a little. "Oh! I have borne enough," she raged wildly. "And now Denise shall suffer. Tell as much truth as will clear me, and give me back my own. You don't believe it, Bertie?" There was wild appeal in her tortured eyes.
"Before heaven, no, Esmé," he rang out.
"And your belief is as false. Before to-morrow you shall know what I am, and what I've done, and judge me then. I am going to find Denise. I'll send for you."