“It is about Mrs. Squire. I knew it was no good talking to you until I had facts to tell you. She’s—she’s—my God, it’s hard to tell you!—she’s utterly worthless. She’s——”
“Don’t say another word, or I’ll kill you, on my soul I will!” Maddison shrieked, leaping up, his eyes blazing with anger, his hands clenched.
“I must, I must,” said Mortimer, standing quietly before him, “and you must hear me. It’s not suspicions, it’s facts. More than one man has been with her while you’ve been down here. I suspected it; I had her watched and there’s no room for doubt. I think you know Geraldstein—he’s been with her; another man was with her only the other night. I saw her myself come out of a disreputable public-house with a man and drive off with him. It was sheer accident I saw her; I didn’t follow—I knew enough already. I’m putting it brutally: there’s no good mincing matters. If she was merely your mistress I wouldn’t have worried, but——”
Maddison turned away, leaning against the mantelshelf, his face buried in his arms; Mortimer went up to him.
“George, old man——”
“Don’t—don’t touch me! Leave me alone for a bit.”
Mortimer sat down. Not a sound broke the silence except the loud ticking of the clock. It seemed to him hours and hours, though it was barely more than a minute, before Maddison spoke.
“What a fool I am, and what a beast,” he said, turning fiercely, “to believe a word of what you’ve said. It’s all some mad mistake. It can’t be true.”
“Do you think I’d have told you if I weren’t absolutely certain?”
“You don’t know her as I do. She couldn’t. She loves me. Now look here, I won’t hear another word, and to-morrow I’ll go to her. I’ll never leave her again, open to such filthy suspicions. You know your room. I’ll stop here. Good night.”