In the afternoon of the following day Tyson was sitting with Molly in the
dining-room when he was told that Captain Stanistreet had called and had
asked to see him. "Was he--?" Yes, the Captain was in the drawing-room.
Tyson was a little surprised at the announcement; for though the shock of
the fire had somewhat obscured his recollection of the events that
preceded it, Molly had unfortunately recalled them to his memory. But he
had clean forgotten some of the details. Consequently he was more than a
little surprised when Stanistreet, without any greeting or formality
whatsoever, took two letters from his pocket and flung one of them on the
window-seat.
"That's your letter," he said. "And here's the answer."
He laid Molly's little note down beside it.
Tyson stared at the letters rather stupidly. That correspondence was one
of the details he had forgotten. He also stared at Stanistreet, who
looked horribly ill. Then he took up Molly's note and examined it without
reading a word. It was crumpled, dirty, almost illegible, as if Louis had
thrust it violently into his pocket, and carried it about with him for
weeks.
"If you really don't know what it means," said Stanistreet, "I'll tell
you. It means that your wife had only one idea in her head. She didn't
understand it in the least, but she stuck to it. She thought of it from
morning till night, when other women would have been amusing themselves;
thought of it ever since you married her and left her. Unfortunately,
it kept her from thinking much of anything else. There were many things
she might have thought of--she might have thought of me. But she
didn't."
"Thanks. I know that as well as you. Did it ever occur to you to think of
her?"
"I shouldn't be here if I hadn't thought of her."
"Oh--" Tyson stepped over to the empty fireplace. It was the only thing
in the room that was left intact.
His attitude suggested that he was lord of the hearth, and that his
position was indestructible.
"Since you considered your testimony to my wife's character so
indispensable, may I ask why you waited five weeks to give it?"
Tyson could play with words like a man of letters; he fought with them
like the City tailor's son.
"You post your letters rather late. I left town an hour after I got
hers."
"It was the least you could do."
"Then I got ill. That also was the least I could do. But I did my best to
die too, for decency's sake. Needless to say, I did not succeed."
"I see. You thought of yourself first, and of her afterwards. What I want
to know is, would you have thought of me, supposing--only supposing--you
could have taken advantage of the situation?"