The two men returned to Forster’s house together.
‘I shall never forget your kindness,’ said Forster, during an interval of comparative calmness. ‘May God bless you for it! I am a broken man now, and have nothing left to live for; but while I live let us be friends.’
And he wrung the young man’s hands.
‘You have nothing to thank me for,’ replied Sutherland. ‘What I have done for you, I would, of course, do for any fellow-man in distress. But I had a deep respect, a profound sympathy, for your wife.’
‘Though, as I understand, you scarcely knew her,’ said Forster, not without a certain wistful curiosity.
‘I could not be said to know her at all. We met twice or thrice, almost as strangers, and then I saw her performances at the Parthenon.’
‘We were so happy,’ cried Forster, with a sudden access of passionate emotion; ‘and she was so good! All goodness—all goodness! God knows under what misconceptions she left my roof. But I know she had an enemy, and perhaps——’
‘Can you bear to speak of that!’ interrupted Sutherland. ‘Hitherto I have forborne from touching on the subject, but with your permission I should like to say a few words now.’
‘Do so—I will try to attend.’
‘You are aware that Mrs. Forster was acquainted with a Frenchman, named Gavrolles, now in London?’