No. Life with him henceforth was impossible. She would break away. . . . She had her house at Moulsford, her own income. As for her London life, she could take a suite at Claridge’s. In the indignant moment she almost forgot Godfrey. Loathing of Edgar overspread all other thoughts. Suddenly she remembered his Bristol speech, and ran through the Times to find the report. Condensed, it contained nothing but the facile, uninspired claptrap that had characterized his public utterances since the beginning of his career. He was lying to the country which he had set out to betray. . . . Meanwhile—so her excited fancy told her—he was a peril running loose about the world. What could she do? Drive off then and there and denounce him to the Prime Minister? He would certainly ask her why she connected the leader in The Morning Gazette with the dinner-party given to her husband’s political opponents. Whence did she derive her knowledge that anything more than conjecture underlay the criticism in Fordyce’s paper? And she would not have a word to say. Once again she opened the drawer and took out Godfrey’s notes. Better destroy them. Her fingers met in the middle of the sheet prepared to tear. Then she paused. No. She thought of Sir Berkeley Prynne—a man of unstained honour in private and public life. She would go to him, this in her hand, tell the whole story and ask his advice. She thrust the paper back into the drawer, rang for her maid and dressed.
A busy woman’s correspondence kept her occupied all the morning. At half-past twelve came a telephone call from Godfrey:
“When and where can I see you? Something most important.”
“Oh, darling, what is it?” Her voice shook. “Where are you?”
“War Office. I can’t tell you anything over the phone. Besides, I haven’t a minute. I’ll be free in about half an hour.”
“Come round here. I shall be alone.”
“Right.”
He switched off, leaving her in throbbing suspense. Naturally he was coming to her about The Morning Gazette article. To her excited fancy the whole War Office was in a state of blind ferment like an ant-heap bombed with a drop of kerosene. His tone, too, had been brusque, imperious, that of a man dealing with crisis. She wished she had gone at once in search of Sir Berkeley Prynne, instead of wasting her morning over correspondence. Still, when one is Chairman and Treasurer of practical concerns, their business has to be attended to. She went on with her work, her eyes on the little agate clock in front of her.
The rattle of a car. A moment of horrible waiting. Rolliter at the door.
“Captain Baltazar, my lady.”