“Do you happen to know who lives at Number Sixteen Vivian Place?” I inquired of my companion.
Benjamin started. My question was certainly a strange one, after what he had just said to me.
“No,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I have just seen Eustace leaving that house.”
“Well, my dear, and what of that?”
“My mind is in a bad way, Benjamin. Everything my husband does that I don’t understand rouses my suspicion now.”
Benjamin lifted his withered old hands, and let them drop on his knees again in mute lamentation over me.
“I tell you again,” I went on, “my life is unendurable to me. I won’t answer for what I may do if I am left much longer to live in doubt of the one man on earth whom I love. You have had experience of the world. Suppose you were shut out from Eustace’s confidence, as I am? Suppose you were as fond of him as I am, and felt your position as bitterly as I feel it—what would you do?”
The question was plain. Benjamin met it with a plain answer.
“I think I should find my way, my dear, to some intimate friend of your husband’s,” he said, “and make a few discreet inquiries in that quarter first.”