For a moment his vis-À-vis regarded him with a very natural surprise. Then:

"You seem a little astonished," he said, with a hint of stiffness in his manner. "May I ask if my name is familiar to you? I don't think I remember yours—though"—he stole another glance at the card, and his brows drew together a little thoughtfully—"Now that I come to look at it I do seem to have heard it before."

"I daresay you have, if you have lived in India. Unfortunately, my name was pretty well known in that country once, for the proverbial nine days." His voice was a little savage. "But don't trouble about my name—let me admit at once that yours is perfectly familiar to me."

He broke off as the waiter approached with their glasses; and until he had vanished Anstice said no more. Then he continued steadily:

"You see I am living at present in Littlefield; and I have the honour of being acquainted with a lady bearing the same name as yourself."

"You mean my wife?" He spoke calmly; and Anstice found himself admiring the other's composure. "Then you will be able to give me the latest news of her and of my little daughter. Has she—Cherry, I mean—quite recovered from that serious burning accident in September?"

"Quite, I think." For a second Anstice's heart was sick within him as he remembered the night on which that accident had taken place; but he stifled the memory and continued steadily. "She got over it splendidly, and she is not marked by even the tiniest scar."

"That's a good thing." Major Carstairs took a drink from the contents of his glass, and then, setting it down, looked Anstice squarely in the face. "See here, Dr. Anstice, by a strange coincidence you and I have been brought together this afternoon, and I should be very much obliged if you will be kind enough to answer me one or two questions."

"I am quite ready to answer any questions you may care to ask, Major Carstairs." Anstice sat upright and pushed aside his glass, and Major Carstairs began at once.

"First of all, how long have you been in Littlefield?"

"A little over twelve months. I went there, to be exact, in September of last year."

"I see. And you have been acquainted with Mrs. Carstairs during the whole of that time?"

"Not quite. I first met Mrs. Carstairs in the spring, when I was called in to attend her professionally."

"I see. As a doctor you will naturally be acquainted with many people in the neighbourhood; and that being so"—Major Carstairs moistened his lips and went heroically on—"you are of course familiar with my wife's story—you know all about those damned anonymous letters—and their sequel?"

"Yes." Anstice met his gaze fully. "I know the story, and I am glad of this opportunity to assure you of my unswerving belief in Mrs. Carstairs' innocence of the charge brought against her. I hope you don't consider my assertion uncalled-for," he added hastily.

For a long moment Major Carstairs said nothing, gazing ahead of him thoughtfully, and Anstice studied the face of Chloe Carstairs' husband with deep interest.

He said to himself that this man was a gentlemen and a man of honour. There was something about him, something dignified, reserved, a little sad, which won Anstice's usually jealously-withheld sympathy at once; and although he had hitherto pictured Major Carstairs as harsh, unforgiving, narrow-minded, inasmuch as he could not bring himself to believe his wife innocent of a degrading charge, now that he saw the man himself, traced the lines in his face which spoke of tragedy, noted the sadness in his eyes, and heard the gentle note in his voice as he spoke of Chloe, Anstice was ready to swear that this man had not lightly disbelieved his wife.

If he had left her, it had not been done easily. He had surely acted in accordance with his lights, which would permit no compromise in a matter of honour; and as he now sat opposite to Major Carstairs, Anstice felt a strange new respect springing up in his heart for the man who had had the courage to stand by his inward convictions, however terribly, tragically mistaken those convictions might have been.

When at length that long pause ended, Anstice was surprised by the manner of its ending.

Major Carstairs leaned across the little table and laid his square-fingered hand, brown with the suns of India, on Anstice's arm.

"From the bottom of my heart I thank you for those words," he said earnestly. "I am glad to know my wife has one friend, at least, in Littlefield, who is able to believe in her innocence."

"She has more than one, sir," returned Anstice significantly, as Carstairs withdrew his hand. "Sir Richard Wayne is as firmly convinced as I that Mrs. Carstairs has been the victim of a cruel injustice. And——"

"Sir Richard? Ah, yes, he was always a true friend to Chloe." He spoke absently and for a second said no more. Then he suddenly bent forward resolutely. "Dr. Anstice, I see you are to be trusted. Well, you have doubtless heard that I left my wife because I could not bring myself to acquit her of the charge brought against her. I don't know how much you may have learned, but I give you my word the evidence against her was—or appeared to be—overwhelming."

"So I have heard." Anstice's tone was strictly non-committal, and after a glance at his impassive face Carstairs went on speaking.

"You must forgive me for reminding you that Mrs. Carstairs never categorically denied the charges made. That is to say, she implied that any such denial was, or should be, unnecessary; and it seemed as though her pride forbade her realizing how unsatisfactory her silence was—to others."

"Forgive me, Major Carstairs." Anstice took advantage of a momentary pause. "May I not just suggest that a categorical denial was unnecessary? Surely to anyone who knew her, Mrs. Carstairs' silence must have been sufficient refutation of the charge?"

He was almost sorry for his impulsive words when he noted their effect. Major Carstairs' naturally florid complexion turned grey; and his whole face grew suddenly aged. In that moment Anstice felt that his speech, with its implied rebuke, had been both impertinent and unjust; yet he hardly knew how to repair his error without committing still another breach of good taste.

Accordingly he said nothing; and after a moment had passed Major Carstairs spoke with something of an effort.

"I am glad to see my wife has found a champion in you," he said, with a smile which Anstice felt to be forced. "And even although as a partisan of hers you naturally think me cruel and unjust, may I ask you to believe that I would give years—literally years—of my life to be able to think myself mistaken in my first judgment of that unhappy affair!"

The note of passion in the last words moved Anstice powerfully; and he forgot his own delicate position in a sudden quite unusual desire to justify himself.

"Major Carstairs, forgive me if I seem to you impertinent, meddlesome. I know quite well that this is no business of mine, but—but I know Mrs. Carstairs, and I know she has been made bitterly unhappy by this wretched misunderstanding. And I am sure, as sure as I am that you and I sit here to-day, that she never wrote one word of all those beastly letters—why, I can almost prove it to you, if you really care for such proof—and then——"

He stopped short, arrested by the change in Carstairs' face. His eyes suddenly blazed with a new and startling fire; and the hand which had been idly playing with a glass clenched itself into a determined fist.

"My God, man, what are you saying? If you can prove my wife to be innocent, why in God's name do you let me sit here in Purgatory?"

"I ... I said almost——" Anstice positively stammered, so taken by surprise was he.

"Well, that's enough to be going on with." Carstairs spoke resolutely. "Look here, I'll tell you something I meant to keep to myself. For the last two months—ever since I received my wife's short and formal letter telling me of Cherry's accident—I've been haunted by the thought that perhaps after all I was mistaken—frightfully, appallingly mistaken, in the conclusion I came to at the time of the trial. At first I was convinced, as you know, that the verdict was the only possible one; and, although it nearly killed me, I could do nothing but leave her and return to India alone. But in the last few weeks I have asked myself whether after all I have not made a terrible mistake. Supposing my wife were innocent, that her silence were the only possible course open to a proud and honourable woman ... supposing that a grievous wrong had been done, and the real writer of those letters allowed to escape scot-free. Oh, there were endless suppositions once I began to dwell on the possibility of my wife's absolute ignorance of the vile things ... and when at last I was able to sail for England I came home with the full determination to go into the matter once more, to rake up, if necessary, the whole sad affair from the beginning, and see whether there were not some other solution to the mystery than the one I was forced to accept at the time of the trial."

"You mean that, sir?" Anstice spoke eagerly, and the other man nodded. "Then I'm bound to say I think it is something more than coincidence that has brought us together to-day. I'm not a religious fellow, and I always feel that if there be a God He went back on me years ago in a way I had not deserved, but I do think that there is something more than chance in our meeting; and if good comes out of it, and the truth is brought to light, well"—he laughed with a sudden gaiety that surprised himself—"I'll forget my old grudge against the Almighty and admit there is justice in the world after all!"

"Dr. Anstice," said Carstairs, "I don't understand you. Would you mind explaining a little more clearly just what you mean? Why should a meeting between you and me be anything more than the prelude—as I hope it may be—to a very pleasant friendship? I honour your belief in my wife, but when you speak of proof——"

"Look here, Major Carstairs." With a sudden resolve Anstice pulled his note-case out of his pocket and extracted two sheets of thin paper therefrom. "You will probably be surprised when I tell you that those infernal letters have started again, and this time I am the person honoured by the writer's malicious accusations."

"The letters have started again? And you are the victim? But——"

"Well, look at this charming epistle sent to a certain gentleman in Littlefield a day or two ago." Anstice handed across the letter he had received from Sir Richard Wayne, and Major Carstairs took the sheet gingerly, as though afraid of soiling his fingers by mere contact with the paper.

He read the letter through, and then looked at Anstice with a new expression in his eyes, which were so oddly reminiscent of Cherry's brown orbs.

"Dr. Anstice, were you the hero of that unfortunate episode in the hills a few years ago?"

Anstice nodded.

"I was the hero, if you put it so. Personally I should say I feel more like the villain of the piece. That, anyway, is how the writer of this letter regards me."

"Oh, that's nonsense." He spoke authoritatively. "You could have done nothing else, and I think myself you showed any amount of pluck in carrying out the girl's request. You and I, who have been in India, know what strange and terrible things happen out there; and I tell you plainly that if I had been that unfortunate girl's brother, or father, I should have thanked you from the bottom of my heart for having the courage to do as you did."

Now it was Anstice's turn to change colour. These words, so heartily spoken, spoken, moreover, by a man who knew the world, whose commendation carried weight by reason of the speaker's position, fell with an indescribably soothing touch on the sore places in Anstice's soul, and in that moment his inward wound received its first impetus towards healing.

He threw back his head with something of the old proud gesture which was now so rarely seen, and his voice, as he replied, held a new note of confidence.

"Thanks awfully, sir." His manner was almost boyish. "You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that. Of course I acted as I did, meaning it for the best, but things turned out so tragically wrong——"

"That was not your fault." Major Carstairs' reply was decisive. "And anyone who ventures to criticize your action proclaims himself a fool. As for the stupid accusations in this letter, well, I should say no one would give them a second's credence."

"Well, I did venture to hope that my few friends would not believe it," returned Anstice, smiling. "And if I had only myself to consider I should not bother my head about it. But you see there is someone else——"

"You mean Mrs. Carstairs?" His manner was suddenly brisk. "Quite so. Of course a second series of letters would remind the neighbourhood of the first. Well, if you can bring yourself to allow me to have that letter I will submit it to one of those handwriting fellows——"

Anstice interrupted him abruptly.

"I've already done so. And the report of the expert I consulted—a well-known man of the name of Clive—is that both these letters were written by the same hand."

"Ah! And did the expert utter any further authoritative dicta on the matter?"

"He gave me two—possible—clues." Anstice spoke slowly. "The letters are, he says, probably written by a woman, and there is a strong presumption in favour of that woman being a foreigner—for instance"—he paused—"an Italian."

"An Italian?" For a second Major Carstairs looked blank. Then a ray of light illumined his mental horizon. "I say, you're not thinking of my wife's maid, old Tochatti, are you?"

"Well"—he spoke deliberately—"to tell you the truth, ever since Clive suggested a foreigner, I have been wondering whether the woman Tochatti could have anything to do with the letters."

"But old Tochatti! Why, she is absolutely devoted to my wife—been with her for years, ever since she was a child. No, believe me, Dr. Anstice, you must write Tochatti off the list."

"Very well." Anstice mentally reserved the right to his own opinion. "As you say, the woman certainly appears devoted both to Mrs. Carstairs and the child. But I'm sure you will agree it is wise to leave no clue uninvestigated in so serious a matter?"

"Quite so. And you may rest assured the matter shall be thoroughly investigated. By the way, you said something about a train. Are you returning to Littlefield to-night?"

"Yes. And it's time I was moving on," said Anstice, glancing at his watch. "Shall I have the pleasure of your company on the journey?"

"Not to-night. I have one or two matters to attend to in town, and I must write and prepare Mrs. Carstairs for my visit. But I shall certainly be down shortly, and I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you again before very long."

"I hope we may meet soon," said Anstice heartily, and Major Carstairs escorted his guest to the steps of the Club, where he took a cordial farewell of him and stood watching the tall figure swing along Piccadilly with the stride of an athlete.

"So that's the fellow there was all the 'gup' about." Major Carstairs had heard the story of Hilda Ryder's death discussed a good many times during his sojourn in India. "A thoroughly decent chap, I should say, and it's deuced hard luck on him to go through life with a memory of that sort rankling in his soul. Ah, well, we all have our private memories—ghosts which haunt us and will not be laid; and at least there is no disgrace in that story of his. At the worst it could only be called a miscalculation—a mistake. But what if my mistake has been a more grievous one—what if Chloe is innocent and I have misjudged her cruelly? If that should be so," said Major Carstairs, "then my ghost will never be laid. The man who shot Hilda Ryder will be forgiven for his too hasty deed. But for a mistake such as mine there could be no forgiveness."

And as he turned to re-enter the club his face looked suddenly haggard and old.