Mrs. Ives held up her mouth as she spoke to Clara’s sallow cheek. The daughter scarcely returned her salutation. Wrapped in thought she left the house. She ran down-stairs and let herself out, returning to the house in Harley Street some time after one o’clock. As she stood on the steps fumbling for her latch-key, her husband confronted her.
“I had a message from an old patient who wished particularly to see me—a message which I could not refuse.”
“Your mother brought it to you, didn’t she?”
“How did you know my mother was here, Luke?”
“I saw you go out with her. What did she come about?”
“I have just told you she brought a message from a patient, Luke. I did not know you were curious.”
“I am not the least curious,” he replied. “To be curious signifies an interest in a person. As I do not take the slightest interest in you I am not curious. Now, I have much to do, and will wish you good night.”
“Good night,” she answered. Husband and wife parted in the hall. Clara went very slowly up the broad flight of stairs. When she reached the first landing she turned and looked back at Tarbot, he on his part looking up at her. The look she gave him back in return was full of an undefined and curious expression. It puzzled the man, and he thought it over a good bit as he sat in his study.
“If I did not know that it was quite impossible,” he said to himself, “I should say that my wife, the woman to whom I have given my name, for whom I have ruined myself, holds some secret against me. What did she mean when she spoke of having the ace of trumps in her hand? If Clara turns against me I shall be lost. I hate her, but I must keep friendly with her, that’s evident. She would be faithful to me—poor soul!—if she thought I had the least vestige of love for her. Can I feign what she wants and so get that ace of trumps from her? Shall I try?”
He sat with his head buried in his hands for some time, but as the night advanced he paced the room restlessly.
Clara also scarcely slept that night. Early in the morning she rose and went to her husband. He was still in his study.
Clara was dressed with care, and notwithstanding her sleepless night looked trim and fresh. As usual, she wore black; soft real lace encircled her thin white throat, and her head, with its crown of red hair, looked something like a tropical flower. She was a graceful woman, and the dress she now wore gave her a special charm.