From that moment Hugh walked on the edge of a volcano. To keep his thoughts from dizzy hoverings over the abyss, he chained them down, with desperate will, to the work he had on hand. In a week’s time would begin the February sittings of the Central Criminal Court. Good fortune had given him more than his usual share of briefs. One, a blackmailing case, made intricate by medical complications. His client, the defendant, a man in good position.

“If you can pull it off, Colman,” said old Harroway, the solicitor, who had known Hugh from boyhood, “you’ll go up like a released balloon.”

He toiled at it night and day and held aloof from his kind. The publicity of his connection with the murder sickened him. He took cabs to and from his chambers lest his ears should be irritated by railway-carriage discussions. Minna he saw once, at the inquest, dressed in black, closely veiled, attended by the old Syrian woman. For appearance sake he had conducted her to her brougham. Had asked her one question on the way thither: Was she staying at The Lindens? She replied in the affirmative. She had hitherto refused offers of friendly asylums. Anna’s sympathy and protection sufficed her. What might happen later she did not know. Perhaps she would accompany Anna to Smyrna. The inquest resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown. The next day he attended the funeral, walked, a haughty and tortured Gentile, amid a host of serene and money-lending Jews. The papers naturally reported the fact.

He did not go to the Merriams. Gerard’s arrival in town was the occasion of a peremptory command to dinner from Irene. He declined, alleging press of work. Gerard, sent by Irene for tidings of the absentee, burst in upon him at ten o’clock that night and found him sitting with dishevelled hair on the edge of a tumultuous sea of brief papers. The genuineness of his excuse was obvious.

He forced, however, his visitor into a chair, handed the tobacco jar and poured out whiskeys and sodas. Gerard eyed the quantum of spirits in Hugh’s glass; also noticed the corkscrew in the cork of the three parts emptied whiskey bottle.

“I say, you’re going it pretty strong, aren’t you?” he remarked, with a significant nod. “What is the matter—work—worry?”

“Both,” said Hugh, putting down his tumbler and sweeping his moist moustache in his fierce way.

“The work to get over the worry, and the whiskey to get over the work.”

“What’s the worry—this Hart affair?”

“I suppose so. It has got on my nerves.”

“I can’t see why the devil it should,” said Gerard, with a little contemptuous laugh. He was of that kind of men who deny the existence of nerves.

“By the way,” he added, after awhile, “they were damned slack at that inquest—I was just saying so to Renie—with the safe open and ledgers and things lying about the table when the old man was found, had I been the coroner, I should have wanted to know the subject of your last conversation with the deceased.”

To his surprise, Hugh sprang to his feet in a great excitement.

“For heaven’s sake, old man, don’t talk about it in that cold-blooded way. I am in a devil of a mess. I don’t mind telling you now—but keep it dark from Renie—I owed Hart £5,000 on my expectations from the Brantfield property. He’s had the bond—of course. I believe it was in that stolen deed-box—I was the last person in the house—no one saw me leave. Has Renie told you her theory of the murder?” Gerard looked at him and whistled.

“That’s how you staved off the bankruptcy, was it? I often wondered.”

“Yes, that was how,” said Hugh, laconically.

Gerard reflected, pulling at his pipe.

“I don’t see anything to be nervous about. Unless you’re keeping something back from me—human nature asserting itself—are you?”

“I tell you I’m in a devil of a mess,” said Hugh. “I didn’t mean to say anything about it. But I’ve told you so much. If you could help me, I would let you. The best thing is to go home to Renie—not just yet—and forget everything about it.”

Gerard drew his eyelids together and peered at his friend, then rose and walked straight up to him.

“Do you mean to hint that you accidentally killed that old man?”

Hugh looked at him incredulously for a moment and then broke into a derisive laugh.

“You fool!” he said.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” laughed Gerard, returning to his whiskey and soda. Hugh seated himself again in his swivel-working library chair, and ran his fingers through his wavy hair impatiently.

“For heaven’s sake let us talk of something else,” he said. “What have you been doing with yourself in Edinburgh?”

Gerard prolonged his visit for a quarter of an hour, and then went home, leaving Hugh to his blackmailer’s interests.

“You are back early,” said Irene.

“Yes. He is in the midst of his briefs. He is a lucky beggar. I wish I had half as many as he.”

“Why, you inconsequent dear,” said Irene. “Only the other day you were saying you were tired of practice—wanted to give it up and travel. Surely ‘semper mutabile’ ought to refer to men——”

“Well, why shouldn’t a man get sick of work?” Irene could find no reply, but laid her hand in his. Whatever Gerard said was right.

“How is poor Hugh?” she asked.

Gerard laughed with masculine ungraciousness and withdrew his fingers from her clasp, so as to press down the tobacco in his pipe.

“You always talk of Hugh as if he were a lad instead of a middle-aged man. He’s all right. But he has some silly idea that he’s in danger of arrest over this Hart affair.”

“No!” cried Irene, quickly, looking at him with sudden scare in her eyes.

“It seems he was mixed up in money matters with Israel, and he was the last person with the old man.”

“That is wrong. Hugh left at 11.30, and the butler saw Mr. Hart at twelve.”

“I don’t know,” said Gerard. “It is all rubbish. There’s something behind it that he wouldn’t tell me. I know nothing of Hugh’s private life. If he’s in a mess, he’ll get out of it this time as he has done before.”

But Irene did not treat the matter so lightly. The face that met Gerard’s somewhat shifty blue eyes was anxious and troubled. Suddenly, however, came the illumination of her smile.

“Of course you are right, dear love. It is all rubbish.”

But far from rubbish proved Hugh’s forebodings when he came home from chambers the following afternoon. Parsons, the hall porter, desired to speak to him, accompanied him up the stairs to his flat. He was an honest fellow, grateful to Hugh for countless careless generosities, and at the same time regarding him with respectful awe on account of his somewhat imperious manner. The seriousness of the communication he was about to make agitated him. With many hesitations he stumbled through his story. The police had been making enquiries, had learned the hour of his return on Tuesday morning, had cross-questioned Mrs. Parsons as to the condition of his clothes, as to his general habits; had enquired whether he was carrying a box or parcel.

“I was obliged to tell them that you were, sir,” said the porter, greatly distressed. “Though I would sooner cut my tongue out than do you any harm, sir.”

“Thank you, Parsons,” said Hugh. “I am greatly obliged to you for telling me. I need not say that you can give the police any information concerning me with a clear conscience. You can’t possibly do me any harm.”

The porter went away relieved. Hugh, left alone, went to his spirit-case on the sideboard and poured himself out a stiff glass of whisky. “It may be the last,” he said to himself, grimly. He drank it off and lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled just a little.

“And now for Minna,” he said, striding out of the room.

The expected blow had fallen. Arrest was certain. Unless he could account for his night, release was impossible. The circumstantial evidence which he knew could be brought against him was enough to imperil his life. And no one could be more acutely aware than he, a criminal advocate, of the possibility of a chain of specious links, unsuspected by him now, that might bring him powerless to the gallows. Now, the gallows is a gruesome thing, which an innocent man, full of the lust of life, cannot contemplate with equanimity.

The marriage could be concealed no longer. It was a matter of life or death. Then all would be well. Provided only he reached The Lindens before a hand was laid on his shoulder. Through the gathering darkness of the dreary February evening he hurried on the accursedly familiar road. It had never seemed so long. As he neared the vague form of the constable advancing on his beat, his heart throbbed violently. Then he laughed scornfully at his fears. As if a policeman on duty would arrest him! Without a doubt he was being shadowed at this very moment, and when the time was ripe, a civil spoken officer in plain clothes would take him quietly and discreetly into custody. But he felt glad when the front door of The Lindens closed upon him and he found himself in the warm security of the hall.

Samuels, the butler, came down the stairs.

“Miss Hart is very sorry, but she cannot receive you to-day, sir.”

“Is she in bed?”

“No, sir.”

“Where is she?”

“In the drawing-room.”

“Thank you, Samuels; I must see her.”

And brushing past the rather bewildered butler, he mounted the stairs and entered the drawing-room unceremoniously. Minna rose angrily from her chair, keeping her thumb between the pages of the novel she was reading. Dressed in a loose dressing-gown, with her hair pinned up untidily, she was all the more incensed at his interruption.

“I told Samuels—” she began, with a petulant stamp of the foot.

“Yes, I know,” he interrupted. “I disregarded him. This is not a time for politeness. The police are after me. I may be arrested at any moment. They know that I did not reach home till the morning. I am caught in a trap. I must account for my actions between half-past eleven and seven.”

She turned as white as a sheet. The novel slipped from her fingers to the carpet.

“Impossible,” she said.

“What’s impossible?”

“That they should arrest you. They have no evidence. Oh! it is absurd.”

“Absurd or not, they will.”

Rapidly he sketched his position. She listened motionless, and with quivering lips.

“What do you wish me to do?” she asked in a voice scarcely audible.

“It’s obvious. You must release me from my promise. I must be able to account for my night—prove my statement.”

“Forfeit my money!” she cried, terror raising her voice. “Do you know what that would mean, to me? This wealth that my father got together is flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. I can’t give it up. It would kill me!”

“It would be your life for mine,” he said, ironically.

“You have sworn,” she said.

“If I had given my simple promise it would have been sufficient.”

“Are you going to keep it?”

He drew himself up. “We will not discuss that,” he said.

“Would they let you go if you told them?”

“Most probably.”

“And if they did not?”

“There would be a very weak case against me.”

“But a wife’s evidence is invalid,” she cried, eagerly seeking the loophole.

“There is Anna.”

“But it would be against you to confess you were in the house at that time.”

“Anna could swear to my entrance at twelve by the window.”

“It might lead to my being arrested, too, as an accomplice.”

“I scarcely think so,” he replied, coldly. The interview was growing hateful. “We could have Anna as a witness to our conjugal relations. She could swear to entering our room at six to wake us—if the worst came to the worst, she might swear she found us asleep. Morality has its limits when it’s life or death.”

Minna sank into a chair and crouched there in a shaking terror.

“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t lose my money.”

“Very well,” he said, “you may keep it. I shall take my chance.”

“It would be the same,” she said, hoarsely, “if you said I was your mistress only. Goldberg is an executor under my father’s will. He hates me—you know why. The clause in the will would put him on the scent. He would go to Somerset House and discover it all....”

“If I am arrested and brought before the magistrate, can you expect Anna to be equally reticent?”

“Anna is an Oriental. Besides, she starts for Smyrna to-morrow morning.”

“In the face of what I have just told you, will you let her go?” he asked, sternly.

“Oh, God!” she cried, leaping to her feet with sudden wild passion. “Don’t torture me any more. You have caused enough misery in my life. Why should I sacrifice my heart’s blood for you—on the first fanciful alarm of danger! Have you ever made one sacrifice for me? Even when you said you loved me, did you give up one hour’s philandering with that other woman? You looked upon me at first as a toy to your hand—you told me so in this very room—to gratify your passions. You married me for my money. You condemned me to that life of scheming and falsehood. You were afraid to face my father like a man. You ruined my life—and now that I am about to build it up again—you come—I don’t believe it—it is another lie—for some purpose of your own.” Hugh looked steadily at her for some moments, and, without condescending to reply, turned on his heel and stalked towards the door. His hand was on the knob, when she rushed forward, caught him by the coat sleeve, and fell at his feet.

“Forgive me, Hugh. Forgive me—I did not know what I was saying—all this is driving me mad—forgive me—pity me—you once loved me Hugh—I can’t lose my money—keep our secret for God’s sake.”

She sobbed out her incoherent and imploring words in hoarse, frightened tones. A wave of supreme scorn swept through him. Even an hour ago this craven agony of fear and avarice would have been inconceivable. But he raised her gently to her feet, and drew her a short way from the door. She stood trembling and shrinking before him.

“I have already told you, Minna,” he said, in a low voice, “you can keep your money, if you value it more than my life.”

In another moment he was gone. Minna staggered to a couch and lay there, her hands clutching at the loosened coils of her dark hair, in death grapple with the devils that had taken possession of her.

But none the less she parted from old Anna Cassaba the following morning without breathing to her a word concerning Hugh’s danger.

“You will come very soon, dearie, and let me show you your dear mother’s beautiful country?” said the old woman, amid the final adieux.

“Very soon,” sobbed Minna, clinging round her neck. “And then we’ll begin a new life and forget all this horror. I want to forget it all—forget I was ever married—forget his existence—and everything!”

Later in the day she accepted the urgently offered hospitality of Aaron Bebro, one of her father’s oldest city friends, whose motherly wife, forgetful of past disdain and derision, gave her warm-hearted welcome. She took the girl to her capacious bosom and cried over her a little; and Minna was miserable and frightened enough to feel grateful.

During dinner that evening a servant entered and whispered into Mr. Bebro’s ear. He rose hurriedly and left the room. Presently he returned looking greatly agitated. To his wife’s enquiries he replied that it had been a business message. But Minna was seized with a horrible foreboding and sat through the remainder of the meal sick and dumb, while her kind hosts pressed upon her food and drink. She dared not ask, though she knew what the answer would be.

Dinner over, he signed to his wife and grown-up daughter to leave him alone with their guest.

“I have some very serious news for you, my dear young lady. A messenger from Scotland Yard came just now.”

“Have they—arrested anyone?”

“The last person in the world one would have guessed. Prepare yourself for a great shock.”

She writhed under these kindly futilities; the more so because she knew that some expression of horrified astonishment was naturally expected from her. A ghastly farce.

“It is Mr. Hugh Colman. It seems impossible, but the officer told me there is a great deal against him.”

She could express no surprise, but sat paralysed, dreading lest her apparent phlegm should give away her secret.

“There must be some mistake,” she said, at last, hoarsely. “He was our friend—dining with us that night. And he went to the funeral.”

“I remember seeing him there,” said Aaron Bebro.

“Will he be brought before the magistrates in the morning?”

“Of course.”

“Shall I have to go—to give evidence?”

“Not to-morrow, I am glad to say; but perhaps afterwards.”

Minna rose from her chair.

“This is a dreadful shock,” she said, in steadier tones, “and it has upset me. I think I shall go to my room. You will make my apologies to Mrs. Bebro—and thank you for your kindness.”

She looked him full in the face and held out her hand, which he pressed warmly.

“You are a brave girl,” he said. But once in her own room, her nerve gave way. She stood before the mirror and laughed hysterically.

“Yes,” she cried, “I am a brave girl.”