“Can I do otherwise?”
“You might stop short at Quixotism.”
“Quixotism!” Herriard echoed. “How can we work together on the old footing with my knowledge that in your eyes my wife is a perjured murderess?”
Gastineau smiled deprecatingly. “Scarcely so bad as that.”
“Something very like it. Your opinion is that the Countess Alexia killed Martindale; venially, if not with malice aforethought; and has denied on oath all knowledge of how he came by his death.”
Contrary, perhaps, to Herriard’s expectation, Gastineau made no attempt to deny or even soften the expression of his judgment. “And so,” he said, with a reversion to his more languid manner, “you think that our eventful connection should come to an end?”
“I think it must,” Herriard answered, glad to bring the disagreeable subject to finality.
“Very well.” Then, with his peculiar smile, “But not to-day. You are not married yet. Who knows what may not happen before the wedding-day to modify my disturbing opinion? The real culprit may turn up. I hope you are searching for him; for, if I may say so without adding to my offence, the late verdict leaves something to be desired.”
“I know that,” Herriard assented gloomily.
Gastineau nodded to emphasize the necessity.