“We shall show that when at last he did return to his home, his clothing was in a deplorable condition. We shall place on the stand his manservant—yes, it required a valet to take care of him and his appearance—to show that his shoes were muddy the next morning, and the cuffs of his evening trousers were damp and soiled. And we shall show something else.

“There was a threat of exposure hanging over him. One other person knew that story. Who can say what danger that person was in? This witness will be called. It will be shown that until this defendant’s arrest—for she is a woman—she lived in terror of her life, her doors locked, and that at least one attempt was made on her life.”

He went on, building his case not so much on the facts as on an appeal to the emotions of the jury. Here, he said in effect, is a rich man, proud and aloof. Too good for you and me, ladies and gentlemen. He is master of the Hunt Club. I suppose none of us here knows what that means, except for pictures. It’s a pretty expensive thing, a Hunt Club. While children are going hungry the hounds have to be fed. They even have kennelmen to look after them and a veterinary to keep them well. Horses too, and stables, and grooms.

This is your defendant. He has a valet. He has a country estate. But he has a secret. He has married a woman not only with a past, but a woman of lowly birth. How far would he go to conceal these two disastrous facts? Would he go all the way? Who can doubt it? Would he do more? Would he do away with inimical witnesses? Why not? One possible witness in this case has already disappeared, and another has been attacked and placed in serious danger of her life. They would produce this witness in due time, and she would state—

Only, of course, it was not to work out that way. Bessie Wainwright never took the stand.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I MOVED DOWN TO Miss Mattie’s a day or two later. Amy had gone, and Bessie made it impossible for me to stay at the Cloisters. She came into my room the night Amy left, came in without knocking, and told me in so many words I’d better get out. She stood there smiling, and said that.

“If Tony wants an affair let him have one,” she said. “I’m not a jealous woman. But it won’t go on under this roof.”

I think if I had had a hatchet in my hand I would have killed her then and there. I managed to control myself, however. “Do you have to judge every woman by yourself?” I said coldly. “There is no affair, and you know it.”

“That’s your story, and you can stick to it until hell freezes over, as far as I’m concerned. All I’m saying is that you are through. Washed up, Miss Pat Abbott.”