Was he looking the least bit uncomfortable? Noel prayed that no sign, no clue might escape him.
“It might come in useful. We’re a funny people. To run off with some one else’s wife is not, of course, a criminal offense. But there is one thing that the law absolutely draws the line at. I wonder if you know what that one thing is?”
“I do not know,” said Petrovitch looking at his watch, “and neither do I care. I am to meet your delightful aunt at her hotel at one o’clock, and it is now a quarter to that hour. If you will excuse me——”
“In connection with that thing that I have not yet named,” went on Noel, “I want you to know that I am going to Germany at nine o’clock to-morrow morning. Here are my passports.”
Touché! There was not the slightest doubt about it now. Petrovitch was on his feet, his heavy head down like that of a charging buffalo, his brows drawn together, his lips thrust out.
His hands gripped the chair back. Noel went on in that casual, calm way of his.
“Look here, Petrovitch, I’m not going to make a row if I can help it. I hate the whole business. You leave Connie alone, and you’ll never hear of this again. Only—I know what I know, and if you force me to do it, I’ll be obliged to produce all the necessary proofs, and you’ll be—dished. It’s an ugly affair, and it would mean I don’t know how many years for you. Candidly now, is it worth it?”
Petrovitch went a queer color and sat down suddenly. He had evidently changed his mind about throwing anything. Noel felt drunk with the wine of complete and unexpected success. He wondered what he would have done in Petrovitch’s place, and decided that he would have brazened it out to the very end. Not so Petrovitch, evidently. His rage had gone as quickly as it had come. But what Noel saw in his face was not fear. No, it was certainly not fear. What was it?
Petrovitch stared at him for some moments, and then said quite simply: