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‘Let us go down to luncheon,’ said Mrs. Capadose, passing out of the room.

‘We went by the garden–without troubling your servant–I wanted to show my wife.’ Lyon followed his hostess with her husband and the Colonel stopped him at the top of the stairs. ‘My dear fellow, I can’t have been guilty of the folly of not fastening the door?’

‘I am sure I don’t know, Colonel,’ Lyon said as they went down. ‘It was a very determined hand–a perfect wild-cat.’

‘Well, she is a wild-cat–confound her! That’s why I wanted to get him away from her.’

‘But I don’t understand her motive.’

‘She’s off her head–and she hates me; that was her motive.’

‘But she doesn’t hate me, my dear fellow!’ Lyon said, laughing.

‘She hated the picture–don’t you remember she said so? The more portraits there are the less employment for such as her.’

‘Yes; but if she is not really the model she pretends to be, how can that hurt her?’ Lyon asked.

The inquiry baffled the Colonel an instant–but only an instant. ‘Ah, she was in a vicious muddle! As I say, she’s off her head.’

They went into the dining-room, where Mrs. Capadose was taking her place. ‘It’s too bad, it’s too horrid!’ she said. ‘You see the fates are against you. Providence won’t let you be so disinterested–painting masterpieces for nothing.’

‘Did you see the woman?’ Lyon demanded, with something like a sternness that he could not mitigate.

Mrs. Capadose appeared not to perceive it or not to heed it if she did. ‘There was a person, not far from your door, whom Clement called my attention to. He told me something about her but we were going the other way.’

‘And do you think she did it?’

‘How can I tell? If she did she was mad, poor wretch.’

‘I should like very much to get hold of her,’ said Lyon. This was a false statement, for he had no desire for any further conversation with Miss Geraldine. He had exposed his friends to himself, but he had no desire to expose them to any one else, least of all to themselves.

‘Oh, depend upon it she will never show again. You’re safe!’ the Colonel exclaimed.

‘But I remember her address–Mortimer Terrace Mews, Notting Hill.’

‘Oh, that’s pure humbug; there isn’t any such place.’

‘Lord, what a deceiver!’ said Lyon.

‘Is there any one else you suspect?’ the Colonel went on.

‘Not a creature.’

‘And what do your servants say?’

‘They say it wasn’t them, and I reply that I never said it was. That’s about the substance of our conferences.’

‘And when did they discover the havoc?’

‘They never discovered it at all. I noticed it first–when I came back.’

‘Well, she could easily have stepped in,’ said the Colonel. ‘Don’t you remember how she turned up that day, like the clown in the ring?’

‘Yes, yes; she could have done the job in three seconds, except that the picture wasn’t out.’

‘My dear fellow, don’t curse me!–but of course I dragged it out.’

‘You didn’t put it back?’ Lyon asked tragically.

‘Ah, Clement, Clement, didn’t I tell you to?’ Mrs. Capadose exclaimed in a tone of exquisite reproach.

The Colonel groaned, dramatically; he covered his face with his hands. His wife’s words were for Lyon the finishing touch; they made his whole vision crumble–his theory that she had secretly kept herself true. Even to her old lover she wouldn’t be so! He was sick; he couldn’t eat; he knew that he looked very strange. He murmured something about it being useless to cry over spilled milk–he tried to turn the conversation to other things. But it was a horrid effort and he wondered whether they felt it as much as he. He wondered all sorts of things: whether they guessed he disbelieved them (that he had seen them of course they would never guess); whether they had arranged their story in advance or it was only an inspiration of the moment; whether she had resisted, protested, when the Colonel proposed it to her, and then had been borne down by him; whether in short she didn’t loathe herself as she sat there. The cruelty, the cowardice of fastening their unholy act upon the wretched woman struck him as monstrous–no less monstrous indeed than the levity that could make them run the risk of her giving them, in her righteous indignation, the lie. Of course that risk could only exculpate her and not inculpate them–the probabilities protected them so perfectly; and what the Colonel counted on (what he would have counted upon the day he delivered himself, after first seeing her, at the studio, if he had thought about the matter then at all and not spoken from the pure spontaneity of his genius) was simply that Miss Geraldine had really vanished for ever into her native unknown. Lyon wanted so much to quit the subject that when after a little Mrs. Capadose said to him, ‘But can nothing be done, can’t the picture be repaired? You know they do such wonders in that way now,’ he only replied, ‘I don’t know, I don’t care, it’s all over, n’en parlons plus!’ Her hypocrisy revolted him. And yet, by way of plucking off the last veil of her shame, he broke out to her again, shortly afterward, ‘And you did like it, really?’ To which she returned, looking him straight in his face, without a blush, a pallor, an evasion, ‘Oh, I loved it!’ Truly her husband had trained her well. After that Lyon said no more and his companions forbore temporarily to insist, like people of tact and sympathy aware that the odious accident had made him sore.