NIGEL, filled with curiosity, and rather anxious, arrived punctually to the moment. He was shown into Percy’s chambers by a stout and prosperous-looking middle-aged clerk, with a gold watch-chain.

He waited there for some minutes, walking slowly up and down the room and examining it. It was a very dull, serious room, almost depressing. On the large table lay bulbous important-looking briefs, tied up with red tape. Framed caricatures of judges and eminent barristers from Vanity Fair hung round the walls. The furniture was scarce, large and heavy. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph with a closed leather cover. It looked interesting and expensive, and Nigel with his quick movements had the curiosity to go across the room to open it. It contained two lovely photographs of Bertha: one in furs and a hat, the other in evening dress. It irritated Nigel. … A sound of footsteps gave him only just time to close it with a spring, and sit down.

Percy came in looking as Nigel had never seen him look before. There had been an unimportant case in court, but he had been unable to get away before. He was so orderly as a rule that he detested keeping anybody waiting. He looked flushed and hurried, and his black smooth hair was extraordinarily rough and wild. Of course, Nigel remembered, he had just taken off his wig. There was a red line on his forehead, the mark left by this ornament. The effect made him look like a different person. He threw off his coat and spoke seriously and rather formally.

“Sorry, Hillier. Delayed in court. Hope I haven’t kept you?”

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” Nigel answered in his cheery way.

Nigel was looking exceedingly at ease, and happy, though the manner was really assumed to-day. He was very smartly dressed, with light gloves and a buttonhole of violets, and looked a gay contrast to Percy, with his unusually rough hair and solemn expression.

“I was very interested. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a barrister’s chambers before. Jolly rooms you’ve got here. What a charming place the Temple is. … Well! I’ve been simply dying of curiosity,” he went on, with a pleasant smile.

“Sit down,” said Percy. “Have a cigarette?”

Nigel lighted up. Percy did not.

“It’s not very pleasant what I want to say to you. It’s simply that I don’t want you to come to our house any more.”

Nigel looked surprised and coloured slightly.

“And may I ask your reason?”

“I don’t see why I should give it, but I will. I don’t wish you to see my wife any more.”

“This is very extraordinary, Kellynch! Why?”

“I’ve reason to believe that your old friendship has been the cause of some talk—some scandal. I don’t like it. I won’t have it, and that’s sufficient. I insist on you avoiding her in future.”

Nigel stared blankly.

“I can only agree of course. I’ll do just as you tell me. But I think, as we’ve known each other so long, that it would be only fair for you to tell me what is your reason for thinking this.”

Nigel walked up and down the room, turned suddenly and said: “What has put this idea into your head?”

Percy hesitated a moment.“I’ll tell you if you like. But, mind, I want no explanations. I needn’t say,” he glanced at the closed photograph, “that I could have no doubt of any kind. … But I have a right to choose my friends and my wife’s also.”

“She doesn’t object?”

Percy frowned and looked him straight in the face.

“I undertake to say she will not object. We’ll make this conversation as short as we can. You’ve asked me my reason and I’ll give it you. I’ve had a series of extraordinary anonymous letters concerning you.”

Nigel stared, horrified.

“She knows nothing about it,” continued Percy, “and I attach no importance to them, except, as I say, they show that your acquaintance must have been misconstrued, and I won’t have a shadow … on her.”

“This is rather hard on me, Kellynch. However, I have the satisfaction of knowing my conscience is absolutely clear, and of course, I’ll do just as you wish. Have you any objection to showing me the letters?”

After a moment’s pause, Percy said:

“No. I don’t know that I have. I’ve got them here. I meant to shove them in the fire, but I’ll let you read them first, if you like.”He went to a drawer, unlocked it, gave Nigel the letters, and watched him while he read them.

The moment Nigel glanced at them he knew they were written by Mary. He remembered by the dates when she had had the typewriter; he remembered, even, seeing some of the white notepaper. He read them all. Then he looked up and said:

“Kellynch, it’s good of you to show these to me. I’m sorry to say I know who wrote them. The earlier ones telling of the appointments are all perfectly true, but entirely misrepresented. They can all be explained.”

“I understand that,” said Percy. “Of course the suggestion and the impression the writer tries to give are absolutely false.”

“Quite so. May I burn the letters now?”

There was a fire and Nigel threw them into it. He saw no point in keeping them to confront Mary with. She would confess anyhow.

“May I ask one thing more?”

“My wife knows nothing about them,” repeated Percy.

Nigel thought what a pity that was. If she had, she would not have come to the party; things might have been tided over. But now. … He had no hope of the wish of his life, he was as furious as a spoilt child who is deprived of a favourite toy—or, rather, disappointed of all hopes of getting one. He became more and more angry with Percy and longed to annoy him. The fellow was too satisfied—too lucky—he had everything too much his own way!

“May I ask one thing?” said Nigel, as the letters were burning and he gave them one last irritated touch with the poker, “may I ask, does this affair give you the impression that I—only I naturally—had any—er—motives in trying to see Mrs. Kellynch often? If I may put it plainly, did you think I cared for her in a way that I had no right to?”

“To tell you the honest truth,” said Percy, “as I choose to be frank with you, I won’t say you had … motives, but I have the impression that you—er—admire her too much.”

Nigel waited a moment.

“And there you are perfectly right, Kellynch.”

Percy started up, looking a little pale.

Nigel had got a little of his revenge.

He had annoyed the comfortable Percy.

“But let me say that all this time I have never, never shown it by word or look. Our talks were almost entirely about Madeline Irwin and my brother, or about Rupert Denison. Your wife is so exceedingly kind and good that she wished to see Miss Madeline as happy as herself.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” said Percy impatiently.

“I shall follow your wishes to the very letter,” said Nigel. “You see how very open I’ve been. How will you explain to her that I drop your acquaintance?”

“I think I shall tell her now,” said Percy, “that I had received a letter and that I’ve seen you. But I shall tell her we parted the best of friends, and nothing must be done, above all things, to annoy or agitate her.”

He looked at the closed leather case again.

“Just now I want to take special care of her. I daresay she won’t notice not meeting you, as we’re not going out in the evening the rest of the season nor entertaining.”

Nigel looked amazed. An idea occurred to him that caused him absurd mortification. It dawned upon his mind that perhaps Bertha was going to have her wish. If so, he would be forgotten more completely than ever.

“Forgive me for asking, Kellynch. I think you’ve been very good to me, really. I trust your wife is not ill?”

“Ill?—oh dear, no.”

Percy smiled a smile that to Nigel seemed maddeningly complacent. “She merely wants a little care for a time. We shall go to the country very early this year. As a matter of fact, it’s something she’s very pleased about.” He stopped.

Nigel gave a pale smile. Percy was too irritating!

“Well, you were right not to worry her about the letters. I’m very sorry for the whole thing. I think it’s been hard on me, Kellynch.”

He stood up.

“Good-bye, Hillier!”

Nigel held out his hand; Percy shook it coldly.

As he went to the door, taking up his hat and stick, Nigel said:

“I sincerely hope you won’t miss me!”