“Go on,” he said; “what else?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have been saying several things—­about doctors whom I have set to watch you—­for a year or more.”

“Do you deny it?” she retorted angrily.

“No—­no, I do not deny anything.  But—­who are these doctors—­whom you have noticed?”

“I don’t know who they are,” she replied impatiently.  “I’ve seen them often enough—­following me on the street, or in public places—­watching me.  They are everywhere—­you have them well paid, evidently; I suppose you can afford it.  But you are wasting your time.”

“You think so?”

“Yes!” she cried in a sudden violence that startled him, “you are wasting your time!  And so am I—­talking to you—­enduring your personal affronts and brutal sneers.  Sufficient for you that I know my enemies, and that I am saner, thank God, than any of them!” She flashed a look of sudden fury at him, and rose from her chair.  He also rose with a promptness that bordered on precipitation.

“For the remainder of the spring and summer,” she said, “I shall make my plans regardless of you.  I shall not go to Newport; you are at liberty to use the house there as you choose.  And as for this incident with Gerald, you had better not pursue it any further.  Do you understand?”

He nodded, dropping his hands into his coat-pockets.

“Now you may go,” she said coolly.

He went—­not, however, to his room, but straight to the house of the fashionable physician who ministered to wealth with an unction and success that had permitted him, in summer time, to occupy his own villa at Newport and dispense further ministrations when requested.

* * * * *

On the night of the conjugal conference between Nina Gerard and her husband—­and almost at the same hour—­Jack Ruthven, hard hit in the card-room of the Stuyvesant Club, sat huddled over the table, figuring up what sort of checks he was to draw to the credit of George Fane and Sanxon Orchil.

Matters had been going steadily against him for some time—­almost everything, in fact, except the opinions of several physicians in a matter concerning his wife.  For, in that scene between them in early spring, his wife had put that into his head which had never before been there—­suspicion of her mental soundness.

And now, as he sat there, pencil in hand, adding up the score-cards, he remembered that he was to interview his attorney that evening at his own house—­a late appointment, but necessary to insure the presence of one or two physicians at a consultation to definitely decide what course of action might be taken.

He had not laid eyes on his wife that summer, but for the first time he had really had her watched during her absence.  What she lived on—­how she managed—­he had not the least idea, and less concern.  All he knew was that he had contributed nothing, and he was quite certain that her balance at her own bank had been nonexistent for months.