furnished, as he was a young man of considerable taste, and he had
also fitted it with sporting trophies collected from many countries.
This room was at the back of the house, and Lumley deliberately
crossed the lawn and looked in at the window."

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