On the following morning Nina did not descend the stairs till she had heard the car leave the house. The strain of the previous night's interview had told upon her. She felt that she had not the resolution to face such another.
The heat was intense. She remembered with regret that she had promised to attend a charitable bazaar in the City that afternoon. Somehow she could summon no relish either for that or the prospect of the theatre with Archie at night. She wondered whither her husband had proposed to take her, half wishing she had yielded a point to go.
She went to the bazaar, fully prepared to be bored. The first person she saw, however, was Archie, and at once the atmosphere seemed to lighten.
He attached himself to her without a moment's delay.
"I say," he said, "send your car back! I'll take you home. I've got my hansom here. It's much more exciting than a motor. We'll go and have tea somewhere presently."
Nina hesitated for barely a second, then did as he required.
Archie's eyes were frankly tender. But, after all, why not? They had known each other all their lives. She laughed at the momentary scruple as they strolled through the bazaar together.
Archie bought her an immense fan—"to keep off the flies," as he elegantly expressed it; and she made a few purchases herself as in duty bound, and conversed with several acquaintances.
Then, her companion becoming importunate for departure, she declined tea in the hall and went away with him.
Archie was enjoying himself hugely.
"Now, where would you like to go for tea?" he asked as they drove away.
"I don't care in the least," she said, "only I'm nearly dead. Let it be somewhere close at hand."
Archie promptly decided in favour of a tea-shop in St. Paul's Churchyard.
"I suppose you have read the morning papers?" he said, as they sat down. "I thought your husband had something up his sleeve."
"What do you mean?" queried Nina quickly. "No, I know nothing."
Archie laughed.
"Don't you really? Well, he has made a few thousands sit up, I can tell you. You've heard of the Crawley gold fields? Heaven knows where they are, but that doesn't matter—somewhere in Australia of course. No one knew anything about them till recently. Well, they were boomed tremendously a little while ago. Your husband was the prime mover. He went in for them largely. Everyone went for them. They held for a bit, then your husband began to sell as fast as he could. And then, of course, the shares went down to zero. People waited a bit, then sold—for what they could get. No one knew who did the buying till yesterday. My dear Nina, your husband has bought the lot. He has got the whole concern into his hands for next to nothing. The gold fields have turned up trumps. They stand three times as high as they ever did before. He was behind the scenes. He merely sold to create a slump. If he chose to sell again he could command almost any price he cared to ask. Well, one man's loss is another man's gain. But he's as rich as Croesus. They say there are a good many who would like to be at his throat."
Nina listened with disgust undisguised on her face.
"How I loathe money!" she said abruptly.
"Oh, I say!" protested Archie. "You're not such an extremist as that. Think of the host of good things that can't be done without it."
"What good things does he do?" she demanded contemptuously. "He simply lives to heap up wealth."
"You can't say for certain that he doesn't do a few decent things when no one's looking," suggested Archie, who liked to be fair, even to those for whom he felt no liking. "People—rich men like that—do, you know. Why, only last night I heard of a man—he's a West End physician—who runs a sort of private hospital somewhere in the back slums, and actually goes and practises there when his consulting hours are over. Pure philanthropy that, you know. And no one but the slummers any the wiser. They say he's simply adored among them. They go to him in all their troubles, physical or otherwise. That's only an instance. I don't say your husband does that sort of thing. But he may."
Nina uttered her bitter little laugh.
"You always were romantic, Archie," she said. "But I'm afraid I'm past the romantic age. Anyhow I'm an unbeliever."
Archie gave her a keen look.
"I say—" he said, and stopped.
"Well?" Nina looked back at him questioningly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, colouring boyishly. "You won't like what I was going to say. I think I won't say it."
"You needn't consider my feelings," she returned, "I assure you I am not used to it."
"Oh, well," he said. "I was going to say that you talk as if he were a beast to you. Is he?"
Nina raised her dark eyebrows and did not instantly reply. Archie looked away from her. He felt uncomfortably that he had gone too far.
Then slowly she made answer:
"No, he is not. I think he has begun to realize that the battle is not always to the strong."
Struck by something in her tone, Archie glanced at her again.
"Jove!" he suddenly said. "How you hate him!"
The words were out almost before he knew it. Nina's face changed instantly. But Archie's contrition was as swift.
"Oh, I say, forgive me!" he broke in, with a persuasive hand on her arm. "Do, if you can! I know it was unpardonable of me. I'm so awfully sorry. You see, I—"
She interrupted hastily.
"It doesn't matter—it doesn't matter. I understand. It was quite an excusable mistake. Please don't look so distressed! It hasn't hurt me much. I think it would have hurt me more if it had been literally true."
The sentences ran out rapidly. She was as agitated as he. They had the little recess to themselves, and their voices scarcely rose above a whisper.
"Then it wasn't true?" Archie said, with a look of relief.
Nina drew back. She was not prepared to go as far as that. All her life she had sought to be honest in her dealings.
"It hasn't come actually to that yet," she said under her breath. "But it may—it may."
Somehow it relieved the burden that pressed upon her to be able to speak thus openly to her life-long comrade. But Archie looked grieved, almost shocked.
"What will you do if it does?" he asked.
"I shall leave him," she said, her face growing hard. "I think he understands that."
There was a heavy silence between them. Then impulsively, with pure generosity, Archie spoke.
"Nina," he said, "if you should need—help—of any sort, you know—will you count on me?"
Nina hesitated for a moment.
"Please!" said Archie gently.
She bent her head.
"Thank you," she said. "I will."
Half-an-hour later they went out again into the blazing sunshine.
"What do you think of my hack?" Archie asked, as they drove away westwards. "I got him at Tattersall's the other day. I haven't driven him before to-day. He's a bit jumpy. But I like an animal that can jump, don't you know."
"I know you do," laughed Nina. "I believe that is purely why you haven't started a motor yet. They can do everything that is vicious and extraordinary except jump. But do you really like a horse to shy at everything he passes? Look at him now! He doesn't like that hand-cart with red paint."
"He's an artist," grinned Archie. "It offends his eye; and no wonder. Don't be alarmed, though! He won't do anything outrageous. My man knows how to manage him."
Nina leant back. She was not, as a rule, nervous, but, as Archie's new purchase was forced protesting past the object of his fright, she was conscious of a very decided feeling of uneasiness. The animal looked to her vicious as well as alarmed.
They got safely past the hand-cart, and a brief interval of tranquillity followed as they trotted briskly down Ludgate Hill.
"He won't have time to look at anything now," said Archie cheerfully.
The words had scarcely left his lips when the tire of a stationary car they were passing exploded with a report like a rifle shot. In a second Archie's animal leapt into the air, struck the ground with all four hoofs together—and bolted.
"My man's got him," said Archie. "Sit still! Nothing's going to happen."
He put his arm in front of Nina and gripped the farther side of the hansom.
But Nina had not the smallest intention of losing her head. During the first few moments her sensations were more of breathless interest than fear. Certainly she was very far from panic.
She saw the roadway before them clear as if by magic before their galloping advance. She heard shouts, warning cries, yells of excitement. She also heard, very close to her, Archie's voice, swearing so evenly and deliberately that she was possessed by an insane desire to laugh at him. Above everything else, she heard the furious, frantic rhythm of the flying hoofs before them. And yet somehow inexplicably she did not at first feel afraid.
They tore with a speed that seemed to increase momentarily straight down the thoroughfare that a few seconds before had seemed choked with traffic. They shaved by vans, omnibuses, hand-barrows. Houses and shops seemed to whirl past them, like a revolving nightmare—ever the same, yet somehow ever different. A train was thundering over the bridge as they galloped beneath it. The maddened horse heard and stretched himself to his utmost speed.
And then came tragedy—- the tragedy that Nina always felt that she had known from the beginning of that wild gallop must come.
As they raced on to Ludgate Circus she had a momentary glimpse of a boy on a bicycle traversing the street before them at right angles. Archie ceased suddenly to swear. The reins that till then had been taut sagged down abruptly. He made a clutch at them and failed to catch them. They slipped away sideways and dragged on the ground.
There came a shock, a piercing cry. Nina started forward for the first time, but Archie flung his arms round her, holding her fast. Then they were free of the obstacle and dashing on again.
"Let me see!" she gasped. "Let me see!"
They bumped against a curb and nearly overturned. Then one of their wheels caught another vehicle. The hansom was whizzed half round, but the pitiless hoofs still tore on and almost miraculously the worst was still averted.
Archie's hold was close and nearly suffocated her; but over his shoulder Nina still managed to look ahead.
And thus looking she saw the most wonderful, and the most terrifying, episode of the whole adventure.
She saw a man in faultless City attire leap suddenly from the footway to the road in front of them. For a breathless instant she saw him poised to spring, and in her heart there ran a sudden, choking sense of anguished recognition. She shut her eyes and cowered in Archie's arms. Deliverance was coming. She felt it in every nerve. But how? And by whom?
There came a jerk and a plunge, a furious, straining effort. The fierce galloping ceased, yet they made still for a few yards a halting, difficult progress.
Then they stopped altogether, and she felt the shock of hoofs upon the splashboard.
Another moment and that, too, ceased. They stood still, and Archie's arms relaxed.
Nina lifted her head and saw her husband hatless in the road, his face set and grim, his hands gripping the reins with a strength that evidently impressed upon the runaway the futility of opposition. In his eyes was a look that made her tremble.
"You had better go home in the car," Wingarde said. "It is waiting for me in Fenwick Street. Mr. Neville, perhaps you will be good enough to accompany my wife. Your animal is tame enough now. Your man will have no difficulty with it, if he is to be found."
"Ah! Exactly!" Archie said.
He looked round vaguely. Nina was leaning on his arm. His man was nowhere to be seen, having some minutes since abandoned a situation which he had discovered to be beyond his powers to deal with.
A crowd surrounded them, and a man at his elbow informed him that his driver had thrown down the reins and jumped off before they were clear of the railway bridge. Archie swallowed the comment upon this discreet behaviour, that rose to his lips.
A moment later Wingarde, who had seemed on the point of departure, pushed his way hastily-back to him.
"Never mind the hansom!" he said. "I believe your man has been hurt. I will see to it. Just take my wife out of this, will you? I want to see if that boy is alive or dead."
He had turned again with the words, forcing his way through the crowd. Nina pressed after him. She was as white as the dress she wore. There was no holding her back. Archie could only accompany her.
It was difficult to get through the gathering throng. When finally they succeeded in doing so, they found Wingarde stooping over the unconscious victim of the accident. He had satisfied himself that the boy lived, and was feeling rapidly for broken bones.
Becoming aware of Nina's presence, he looked up with a frown. Then, seeing her piteous face, he refrained from uttering the curt rebuke that had risen to his lips.
"I want you to go home," he said. "I will do all that is necessary here. Neville, take my wife home! The car is close at hand in Fenwick Street."
"He isn't dead?" faltered Nina shakily.
"No—certainly not." Wingarde's voice was confident.
He turned from her to speak to a policeman; and Nina yielded to Archie's hand on her arm. She was more upset than she had realized.
Neither of them spoke during the drive westwards. Archie scowled a good deal, but he gave no vent to his feelings.
Arrived in Crofton Square, he would have taken his leave of her. But Nina would not hear of this.
"Please stay till Hereford comes!" she entreated. "You will want to know what he has done. Besides, I want you."
Archie yielded to pressure. No word was spoken by either in praise or admiration of the man who had risked his life to save theirs. Somehow it was a difficult subject between them.
Nearly two hours later Wingarde arrived on foot. He reported Archie's man only slightly the worse for his adventure.
"It ought to have killed him," he said briefly. "But men of that sort never are killed. I told him to drive back to stables. The horse was as quiet as a lamb."
"And the boy?" Nina asked eagerly.
"Oh, the boy!" Wingarde said. "His case is more serious. He was taken to the Wade Home. I went with him. I happen to know Wade."
"That's the West End physician," said Archie. "He calls himself Wade, I know, when he wants to beincog."
"That's the man," said Wingarde. "But I am not acquainted with him as the West End physician. He is purely a City acquaintance. Oh, are you going, Neville? We shall see you again, I suppose?"
It was not cordially spoken. Archie coloured and glanced at Nina.
"You are coming to dinner, aren't you?" she said at once. "Please do! We shall be alone. And you promised, didn't you?"
Archie hesitated for a moment. Wingarde was looking at him piercingly.
"I hope you won't allow my presence to interfere with any plans you may have made for to-night's amusement," he remarked. "I shall be obliged to go out myself after dinner."
Archie drew himself up. Wingarde's tone stung.
"You are very good," he said stiffly. "What do you say, Nina? Do you feel up to the theatre?"
Nina's colour also was very high. But her eyes looked softer than usual. She turned to her husband.
"Couldn't you come, too, for once, Hereford?" she asked. "We were thinking of the theatre. It—it would be nice if you came too."
The falter in the last sentence betrayed the fact that she was nervous.
Wingarde smiled faintly, contemptuously, as he made reply.
"Really, that's very kind of you," he said. "But I am compelled to plead a prior engagement. You will be home by midnight, I suppose?"
Archie made an abrupt movement. For a second he hovered on the verge of an indignant outburst. The man's manner, rather than his words, was insufferable. But in that second he met Wingarde's eyes, and something he saw there checked him. He pulled himself together and somewhat awkwardly took his leave.
Wingarde saw him off, with the scoffing smile upon his lips. When he returned to the drawing-room Nina was on her feet, waiting for him. She was still unusually pale, and her eyes were very bright. She wore a restless, startled look, as though her nerves were on the stretch.
Wingarde glanced at her.
"You had better go and lie down till dinner," he said.
Nina looked back at him. Her lips quivered a little, but when she spoke her voice was absolutely steady. She held her head resolutely high.
"I think Archie must have forgotten to thank you," she said, "for what you did. But I have not. Will you accept my gratitude?"
There was proud humility in her voice. But Wingarde only shrugged his shoulders with a sneer.
"Your gratitude would have been more genuine if you had been saved a widow instead of a wife," he said brutally.
She recoiled from him. Her eyes flashed furious indignation. She felt as if he had struck her in the face. She spoke instantly and vehemently. Her voice shook.
"That is a poison of your own mixing," she said. "You know it!"
"What! It isn't true?" he asked.
He drew suddenly close to her. His eyes gleamed also with the gleam of a smouldering fire. She saw that he was moved. She believed him to be angry. Trembling, yet scornful, she held her peace.
He gripped her wrists suddenly, bending his dark face close to hers.
"If it isn't true—" he said, and stopped.
She drew back from him with a startled movement. For an instant her eyes challenged his. Then abruptly their fierce resistance failed. She turned her face aside and burst into tears.
In a moment she was free. Her husband stood regarding her with a very curious look in his eyes. He watched her as she moved slowly away from him, fighting fiercely, desperately, to regain her self-control. He saw her sit down, leaving almost the length of the room between them, and lean her head upon her hand.
Then the man's arrested brutality suddenly reasserted itself, and he strode to the door.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed as he went. "Don't I know that you pray for a deliverer every night of your life? And what deliverer would you have if not death—the surest of all—in your case positively the only one within the bounds of possibility?"
He was gone with the words, but she would not have attempted to answer them had he stayed. Her head was bowed almost to her knees, and she sat quite motionless, as if he had stabbed her to the heart.
Later she dined alone with Archie in her husband's unexplained absence, and later still, at the theatre, her face was as gay, her laugh as frequent, as any there.
On the following afternoon Nina went to the Wade Home to see the victim of the accident. She was received by the matron, a middle-aged, kindly woman, who was openly pleased with the concern her visitor exhibited.
"Oh, he's better," she said, "much better. But I'm afraid I can't let you see him now, as he is asleep. Dr. Wade examined him himself yesterday. And he was here again this morning. His opinion is that the spine has been only bruised. While unconsciousness lasted, it was, of course, difficult to tell. But the patient became conscious this morning, and Dr. Wade said he was very well pleased with him on the whole. He thinks we shall not have him very long. He's a bright little chap and thoroughly likes his quarters. His father is a dock labourer. Everyone knows the Wade Home, and all the patients consider themselves very lucky to be here. You see, the doctor is such a favourite wherever he goes."
"I have never met Dr. Wade," Nina said. "I suppose he is a great man?"
The matron's jolly face glowed with enthusiasm.
"He is indeed," she said—"a splendid man. You probably know him by another name. They say he is a leading physician in the West End. But we City people know him and love him by his assumed name only. Why, only lately he cut short his holiday on purpose to be near one of his patients who was dying. If you could manage to come to-morrow afternoon after four o'clock, no doubt you would see him. It is visiting-day, and he is always here on Sunday afternoons between three and six in case the visitors like to see him. I should be delighted to give you some tea. And you could then see the little boy."
"Thank you," Nina said. "I will."
That evening she chanced to meet Archie Neville at a friend's dinner-table and imparted to him her purpose.
"Jove!" he said. "Good idea! I'll come with you, shall I?"
"Please not in the hansom!" she said.
"Not a bit of it," returned Archie. "But you needn't be nervous. I've sacked that man. No matter! We'll go in a wheelbarrow if you think that'll be safer."
Nina laughed and agreed to accept his escort. Archie's society was a very welcome distraction just then.
To her husband she made no mention of her intention. She had established the custom of going her own way at all times. It did not even cross her mind to introduce the subject. He was treating her with that sarcastic courtesy of his which was so infinitely hard to bear. It hurt her horribly, and because of the pain she avoided him as much as she dared.
She did not know how he spent his time on Sundays. Except for his presence at luncheon she found she was left as completely to her own devices as on other days.
She had agreed to drive Archie to the Wade Home in her husband's landaulette.
Wingarde left the house before three and she was alone when Archie arrived.
The latter looked at her critically.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," she returned instantly. "Why?"
"You're looking off colour," he said.
Nina turned from him impatiently.
"There is nothing the matter with me," she said. "Shall we start?"
Archie said no more. But he glanced at her curiously from time to time. He wondered privately if her husband's society were driving her to that extreme which she had told him she might reach eventually.
Visitors were being admitted to the Wade Home when they arrived. They were directed to the ward where lay the boy in whom they were interested. Nina presented him with flowers and a book, and sat for some time talking with him. The little fellow was hugely flattered by her attentions, though too embarrassed to express his pleasure in words. Archie amused himself by making pennies appear and disappear in the palms of his hands for the benefit of a sad-faced urchin in the next bed who had no visitors.
In the midst of this the matron bustled in to beg Nina and her companion to take a cup of tea in her room.
"Dr. Wade is here and sure to come in," she said. "I should like you to meet him."
Nina accordingly took leave of herprotégé, and, followed by Archie, repaired to the matron's room.
The windows were thrown wide open, for the afternoon was hot. They sat down, feeling that tea was a welcome sight.
"I have a separate brew for Dr. Wade," said the matron cheerily. "He likes it so very strong. He almost always takes a cup. There! I hear him coming now."
There sounded a step in the passage and a man's quiet laugh. Nina started slightly.
A moment later a voice in the doorway said:
"Ah! Here you are, Mrs. Ritchie! I have just been prescribing a piece of sugar for this patient of ours. Her mother is waiting to take her away."
Nina was on her feet in an instant. All the blood seemed to rush to her heart. Its throbs felt thick and heavy. On the threshold her husband stood, looking full at her. In his arms was a little child.
"Dr. Wade!" smiled the matron. "You do spoil your patients, sir. There! Let me take her! Please come in! Your tea is just ready. I was just talking about you to Mrs. Wingarde, who came to see the boy who was knocked down by a hansom last week. Madam, this is Dr. Wade."
She went forward to lift the child out of Wingarde's arms. There followed a silence, a brief, hard-strung silence. Nina stood quite still. Her hands were unconsciously clasped together. She was white to the lips. But she kept her eyes raised to Wingarde's face. He seemed to be looking through her, and in his eyes was that look with which he had regarded her when he had saved her life and Archie's two days before.
He spoke almost before the matron had begun to notice anything unusual in the atmosphere.
"Ah!" he said, with a slight bow. "You know me under different circumstances—you and Mr. Neville. You did not expect to meet me here?"
Archie glanced at Nina and saw her agitation. He came coolly forward and placed himself in the breach.
"We certainly didn't," he said. "It's good sometimes to know that people are not all they seem. I congratulate you, er—Dr. Wade."
Wingarde turned his attention to his wife's companion. His face was very dark.
"Take the child to her mother, please, Mrs. Ritchie!" he said curtly, over his shoulder.
The matron departed discreetly, but at the door the child in her arms began to cry.
Wingarde turned swiftly, took the little one's face between his hands, spoke a soft word, and kissed it.
Then, as the matron moved away, he walked back into the room, closing the door behind him. All the tenderness with which he had comforted the wailing baby had vanished from his face.
"Mr. Neville," he said shortly, "my wife will return in the car with me. I will relieve you of your attendance upon her."
Archie turned crimson, but he managed to control himself—more for the sake of the girl who stood in total silence by his side than from any idea of expediency.
"Certainly," he said, "if Mrs. Wingarde also prefers that arrangement."
Nina glanced at him. He saw that her lip was quivering painfully. She did not attempt to speak.
Archie turned to go. But almost instantly Wingarde's voice arrested him.
"I can give you a seat in the car if you wish," he said. He spoke with less sternness, but his face had not altered.
Archie stopped. Again for Nina's sake he choked back his wrath and accepted the churlishly proffered amendment.
Wingarde drank his tea, strolling about the room. He did not again address his wife directly.
As for Nina, though she answered Archie when he spoke to her, it was with very obvious effort. She glanced from time to time at her husband as if in some uncertainty. Finally, when they took leave of the matron and went down to the car she seemed to hail the move with relief.
Throughout the drive westwards scarcely a word was spoken. At the end of the journey Archie turned deliberately and addressed Wingarde. His face was white and dogged.
"I should like a word with you in private," he said.
Wingarde looked at him for a moment as if he meant to refuse. Then abruptly he gave way.
"I am at your service," he said formally.
And Archie marched into the house in Nina's wake.
In the hall Wingarde touched his shoulder.
"Come into the smoking-room!" he said quietly.
"I want to know what you mean," said Archie.
He stood up very straight, with the summer sunlight full in his face, and confronted Nina's husband without a hint of dismay in his bearing.
Wingarde looked at him with a very faint smile on his grim lips.
"You wish to take me to task?" he asked.
"I do," said Archie decidedly.
"For what in particular? The innocent deception practised upon an equally innocent public? Or for something more serious than that?"
There was an unmistakable ring of sternness behind Wingarde's deliberately scoffing tone.
Archie answered him instantly, with the quickness of a man who fights for his honour.
"For something more serious," he said. "It's nothing to me what fool trick you may choose to play for your own amusement. But I am not going to swallow an insult from you or any man. I want an explanation for that."
Wingarde stood with his back to the light and looked at him.
"In what way have I insulted you?" he said.
"You implied that I was not a suitable escort for your wife," Archie said, forcing himself to speak without vehemence.
Wingarde raised his eyebrows.
"I apologize if I was too emphatic," he said, after a moment. "But, considering the circumstances, I am forced to tell you that I do not consider you a suitable escort for my wife."
"What circumstances?" said Archie. He clenched his hands abruptly, and Wingarde saw it.
"Please understand," he said curtly, "that I will listen to you only so long as you keep your temper! I believe that you know what I mean—what circumstances I refer to. If you wish me to put them into plain language I will do so. But I don't think you will like it."
Archie pounced upon the words.
"You would probably put me to the trouble of calling you a liar if you did," he said, in a shaking voice. "I have no more intention than you have of mincing matters. As to listening to me, you shall do that in any case. I am going to tell you the truth, and I mean that you shall hear it."
He strode to the door as he spoke, and locked it, pocketing the key.
Wingarde did not stir to prevent him. He waited with a sneer on his lips while Archie returned and took up his stand facing him.
"You seem very sure of yourself," he said in a quiet tone.
"I am," Archie said doggedly. "Absolutely sure. You think I am in love with your wife, don't you?"
Wingarde frowned heavily.
"Are you going to throw dust in my eyes?" he asked contemptuously.
Archie locked his hands behind him.
"I am going to tell you the truth," he said again, and, though his voice still shook perceptibly there was dignity in his bearing. "Three years ago I was in love with her."
"Calf love?" suggested Wingarde carelessly.
"You may call it what you like," Archie rejoined. "That is to say, anything honourable. I was hard hit three years ago, and it lasted off and on till her marriage to you. But she never cared for me in the same way. That I know now. I proposed to her twice, and she refused me."
"You weren't made of money, you see," sneered Wingarde.
Archie's fingers gripped each other. He had never before longed so fiercely to hurl a blow in a man's face.
"If I had been," he said, "I am not sure that I should have made the running with you in the field. That brings me to what I have to say to you. I wondered for a long time how she brought herself to marry you. When you came back from your honeymoon I began to understand. She married you for your money; but if you had chosen, she would have married you for love."
He blurted out the words hastily, as though he could not trust himself to pause lest he should not say them.
Wingarde stood up suddenly to his full height. For once he was taken totally by surprise and showed it. He did not speak, however, and Archie blundered on:
"I am not your friend. I don't say this in any way for your sake. But—I am her's—- her friend, mind you. I don't say I haven't ever flirted with her. I have. But I have never said to her a single word that I should be ashamed to repeat to you—not one word. You've got to believe that whether you want to or not."
He paused momentarily. The frown had died away from Wingarde's face, but his eyes were stern. He waited silently for more. Archie proceeded with more steadiness, more self-assurance, less self-restraint.
"You've treated her abominably," he said, going straight to the point. "I don't care what you think of me for saying so. It's the truth. You've deceived her, neglected her, bullied her. Deny it if you can! Oh, no, this isn't what she has told me. It has been as plain as daylight. I couldn't have avoided knowing it. You made her your wife, Heaven knows why. You probably cared for her in your own brutal fashion. But you have never taken the trouble to make her care for you. You never go out with her. You never consider her in any way. You see her wretched, ill almost, under your eyes; and instead of putting it down to your own confounded churlishness, you turn round and insult me for behaving decently to her. There! I have done. You can kick me out of the house as soon as you like. But you won't find it so easy to forget what I've said. You know in your heart that it's the truth."
Archie ended his vigorous speech with the full expectation of being made to pay the penalty by means of a damaged skin.
Wingarde's face was uncompromising. It told nothing of his mood during the heavy silence that followed. It was, therefore, a considerable shock when he abruptly surrendered the citadel without striking a single blow.
"I am much obliged to you, Neville," he said very quietly. "And I beg to apologize for a most unworthy suspicion. Will you shake hands?"
Archie tumbled off his high horse with more speed than elegance. He thrust out his hand with an inarticulate murmur of assent. Perhaps after all the fellow had been no worse than an unmannerly bear. The next minute he was discussing politics with the monster he had dared to beard in his own den.
When Nina saw her husband again he treated her with a courtesy so scrupulous that she felt the miserable scourge of her uncertainty at work again. She would have given much to have possessed the key to his real feelings. With regard to his establishment of the Wade Home, he gave her the briefest explanation. He had been originally intended for a doctor, he said, had passed his medical examinations, and been qualified to practise. Then, at the last minute, a chance opening had presented itself, and he had gone into finance instead.
"After that," he somewhat sarcastically said, "I gave myself up to the all absorbing business of money-making. And doctoring became merely my fad, my amusement, my recreation—whatever you please to call it."
"I wish you had told me," Nina said, in a low voice.
At which remark he merely shrugged his shoulders, making no rejoinder.
She felt hurt by his manner and said no more. Only later there came to her the memory of the man she feared, standing in the doorway of the matron's room with a little child in his arms. Somehow that picture was very vividly impressed upon her mind.
"What! You are coming too?"
Nina stopped short on her way to the car and gazed at her husband in amazement.
He had returned early from the City, and she now met him dressed to attend a garden-party whither she herself was going.
He bent his head in answer to her surprised question.
"I shall give myself the pleasure of accompanying you," he said, with much formality.
She coloured and bit her lip. Swift as evil came the thought that he resented her intimacy with Archie and was determined to frustrate any attempt on their part to secure atête-à -tête.
"You take great care of me," she said, with a bitter little smile.
Wingarde made no response; his face was quite inscrutable.
They scarcely spoke during the drive, and she kept her face averted. Only when he held out his hand to assist her to alight she met his eye for an instant and wondered vaguely at the look he gave her.
The party was a large one; the lawns were crowded. Nina took the first opportunity that offered to slip away from him, for she felt hopelessly ill at ease in his company. The sensation of being watched that had oppressed her during her brief honeymoon had reawakened.
Archie presently joined her.
"Did I see the hero of the Crawley gold field just now?" he asked. "Or was it hallucination?"
Nina looked at him with a very bored expression.
"Oh, yes, my husband is here," she said. "I suppose you had better not stay with me or he will come up and be rude to you."
Archie chuckled.
"Not he! We understand one another," he said lightly. "But, I say, what an impostor the fellow is! Everyone knows about Dr. Wade, but no one connects him in the smallest degree with Hereford Wingarde. It shouldn't be allowed to go on. You ought to tell the town-crier."
Nina tried to laugh, but it was a somewhat dismal effort.
"Come along!" said Archie cheerily. "There's my mother over there; she has been wondering where you were."
Nina went with him with a nervous wonder if Hereford were still watching her, but she saw nothing of him.
The afternoon wore away in music and gaiety. A great many of her acquaintances were present, and to Nina the time passed quickly.
She was sitting in a big marquee drinking the tea that Archie had brought her when she next saw her husband. By chance she discovered him talking with a man she did not know, not ten yards from her. The tent was fairly full, and the buzz of conversation was continuous.
Nina glanced at him from time to time with a curious sense of uneasiness, and an unaccountable desire to detach him from his acquaintance grew gradually upon her.
The latter was a heavy-browed man with queer, furtive eyes. As Nina stealthily watched them she saw that this man was restless and agitated. Her husband's face was turned from her, but his attitude was one of careless ease, into which his big limbs dropped when he was at leisure.
Later she never knew by what impulse she acted. It was as if a voice suddenly cried aloud in her heart that Wingarde was in deadly danger. She gave Archie her cup and rose.
"Just a moment!" she said hurriedly. "I see Hereford over there."
She moved swiftly in the direction of the two men. There was disaster in the air. She seemed to breathe it as she drew near. Her husband straightened himself before she reached him, and half turned with his contemptuous laugh. The next instant Nina saw his companion's hand whip something from behind him. She shrieked aloud and sprang forward like a terrified animal. The man's eyes maddened her more than the deadly little weapon that flashed into view in his right hand.
There followed prompt upon her cry the sharp explosion of a revolver-shot, and then the din of a panic-stricken crowd.
But Nina did not share the panic. She had flung herself in front of her husband, had flung her whole weight upon the upraised arm that had pointed the revolver and borne it downwards with all her strength. Those who saw her action compared it later with the furious attack of a tigress defending her young.
It was all over in a few brief seconds. Men crowded round and overpowered her adversary. Someone took the frenzied girl by the shoulders and forced her to relinquish her clutch.
She turned and looked straight into Wingarde's face, and at the sight her nerves gave way and she broke into hysterical sobbing, though she knew that he was safe.
He put his arm around her and led her from the stifling tent. People made way for them. Only their hostess and Archie Neville followed.
Outside on the lawn, away from the buzzing multitude, Nina began to recover herself. Archie brought a chair, and she dropped into it, but she held fast to Wingarde's arm, beseeching him over and over again not to leave her.
Wingarde stooped over her, supporting her; but he found nothing to say to her. He briefly ordered Archie to fetch some water, and made request to his hostess, almost equally brief, that their car might be called in readiness for departure. But his manner was wholly free from agitation.
"My wife will recover better at home," he said, and the lady of the house went away with a good deal of tact to give the order herself.
Left alone with him, Nina still clung to her husband; but she grew rapidly calmer in his quiet hold. After a moment he spoke to her.
"I wonder how you knew," he said.
Nina leant her head against him like an exhausted child.
"I saw it coming," she said. "It was in his eyes—mad hatred. I knew he was going to—to kill you if he could."
She did not want to meet his eyes, but he gently compelled her.
"And so you saved my life," he said in a quiet tone.
"I had to," she said faintly.
Archie here reappeared with a glass of water.
"The fellow is in a fit," he reported. "They are taking him away. Jove, Wingarde! You ought to be a dead man. If Nina hadn't spoilt that shot—"
Nina was shuddering, and he broke off.
"You'd better give up cornering gold fields," he said lightly. "It seems he was nearly ruined over your lastcoup. You may do that sort of thing once too often, don't you know. I shouldn't chance another throw."
Nina stood up shakily and looked at her husband.
"If you only would give it up!" she said, with trembling vehemence. "I—I hate money!"
Wingarde made no response; but Archie instantly took her up.
"You only hate money for what it can't buy," he said. "You probably expect too much from it. Don't blame money for that."
Nina uttered a tremulous laugh that sounded strangely passionate.
"You're quite right," she said. "Money's not everything. I have weighed it in the balance and found it wanting."
"Yes," Wingarde said in a peculiar tone. "And so have I."