Then, whether or no he was spreading a snare for me, I thought of Barbara by herself at the Abbey, reading of a “well-known playwright’s death” and stumbling blindly through the dim, panelled rooms in vain search of some one to comfort her.
“We can go back by way of Crowley Court,” I said. “I’ll send Babs a telegram. If she’s still at the Abbey . . .”
“I’m entirely in your hands,” said O’Rane.
That night we lay at Exeter; and next day we headed for Southampton. As we got into the car, I was given a telegram from Barbara:
“All well here hope you are enjoying yourselves can you possibly return by way of Crawleigh I need you.”
5
Only when I was committed irrevocably did I realize that I had not decided how I was to meet her.
“I can’t pretend for five minutes,” I said. “I never could.”
“She’s . . . entitled to see her own letters,” O’Rane suggested. “You opened this at her request . . .”
“But, good God, man, she’s my wife!,” I broke out; and, remembering the sustained deceit of these fifteen months, I could not trust myself to say more.