Lovell paused for a moment or two to relight his pipe.

“Remember,” he continued, “that I have to put this story together, partly from facts which came to my knowledge afterwards, and partly from reasonable deductions.  I may say at once that I do not know what Lumley saw when he played the spy.  The housekeeper had just taken tea in, and it is possible that Wingrave may have been holding his guest’s hand, or that something in their faces or attitude convinced him that his jealousy was well founded.  Anyhow, it is certain that Lumley was half beside himself with rage when he strode away from that window.  Then in the avenue he must have heard the soft patter of hounds coming along the lane, or perhaps seen the pink coats of the huntsmen through the hedge.  This much is certain.  He hurried down the drive, and returned with Ruth’s husband.”

Lovell took another drink.  No one spoke.  No one even made a remark.  The little circle of listeners had caught something of his own gravity.  The story was an ordinary one enough, but something in Lovell’s manner of telling it seemed somehow to bring into their consciousness the apprehension of the tangled web of passions which burned underneath its sordid details.

“Ruth’s husband—­Sir William I will call him—­stood side by side with Lumley before the window.  What they saw I cannot tell you.  They entered the room.  The true story of what happened there I doubt if anyone will ever know.  The evidence of servants spoke of raised voices and the sound of a heavy fall.  When they were summoned, Sir William lay on the floor unconscious.  Lady Ruth had fainted; Lumley and Wingrave were both bending over the former.  On the floor were fragments of paper, which were afterwards put together, and found to be the remains of a check for a large amount, payable to Lady Ruth, and signed by Wingrave.

“The sequel is very soon told.  Sir William died in a few days, and Wingrave, on the evidence of Lumley and Ruth, was committed for manslaughter, and sent to prison for fifteen years!”

Lovell paused.  A murmur went round the little group of listeners.  The story, after all, except for Lovell’s manner of telling it, was an ordinary one.  Everyone felt that there was something else behind.

So they asked no questions whilst Lovell drank his whisky and soda, and refilled his pipe.  Again his eyes seemed to wander to the calendar.

“According to Lady Ruth’s evidence,” he said thoughtfully, “her husband entered the room at the exact moment when she was rejecting Wingrave’s advances, and indignantly refusing a check which he was endeavoring to persuade her to accept.  A struggle followed between the two men, with fatal results for Sir William.  That,” he added slowly, “is the story which the whole world read, and which most of it believes.  Here, however, are a few corrections of my own, and a suggestion or two for you, Aynesworth, and those of you who like