The letter had been written two days ago. Jimmy realised dully that Cynthia must have gone straight from his rooms that evening and sent it; realised that it had been lying at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt died until now.
Perhaps Cynthia Farrow had not realised what she was doing—perhaps she judged all women by her own standard; but surely even she would have been more than satisfied with the results could she have seen Christine's face as she sat there in the big, silent room, with the afternoon sunshine streaming around her.
Twice Jimmy tried to speak, but no words would come; he felt as if rough hands were at his throat, choking him, squeezing the life out of his body, Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside his wife.
"Christine—for God's sake——" He tried to take her in his arms, but she moved away; shrank back from him as if in terror, hiding her face and moaning—moaning.
"Christine . . ." There was a sob in Jimmy Challoner's voice now; he broke out stammeringly. "Don't believe it—it's all lies. I'd give my soul to undo it—if only you'd never seen it. I swear to you on my word of honour that I'll never see her again. I'll do any mortal thing, anything in the wide world, if only you'll look at me—if you'll forgive me—— Oh, for God's sake, say you forgive me——"
Her hands fell from her face; for a moment her eyes sought his.
"Then—then it is true!" she said faintly.
"Yes. I can't tell you a lie about it—it is true. I did—did love her. I was—engaged to her; but it's all over. I swear to you that it's all over and done with. I'll never see her again—I'll be so good to you." She hardly seemed to hear.
"Then you never really loved me?" she asked after a moment. "It wasn't because—because you loved me?"
"N-no." He got to his feet again; he strode up and down the room agitatedly. He had spoken truly enough when he said that he would have given his soul to undo these last few moments.