"My other life," he repeated, smiling gently.
"Yes," she said, "from my cousin. It was his duty. Tell me it is not true."
He saw the tears in her eyes. He marked the supplication in her voice. But he did not move from the threshold.
"From Penthouse?" he inquired.
She did not answer him. She stood with one hand raised to her breast, and a world of entreaty in her gaze.
"I thought," said Hemming, coldly, "that you loved me. I thought that when a woman loved the man who loves her, that she also trusted him. But I am very ignorant, considering my age."
He took his hat and stick from the rack in the hall, and let himself out of the front door. He stood for a few seconds on the steps and looked up and down the street. A cab rolled up to the curb. After drawing on his gloves and adjusting his monocle, he stepped into the cab and quietly gave the name of his club to the man behind.
The cab bowled along the quiet, respectable street.
"Stop here," cried Hemming, when they had reached the corner, and as the horse slid to a standstill he stepped out, and went up to a heavily dressed young man on the pavement. The stranger did not see him, and held on in the direction from which Hemming had just come.
"Excuse me—a word," said Hemming.