MY first impulse was the reckless impulse to follow Eustace—openly through the streets.

The Major and Benjamin both opposed this hasty resolution on my part. They appealed to my own sense of self-respect, without (so far as I remember it) producing the slightest effect on my mind. They were more successful when they entreated me next to be patient for my husband’s sake. In mercy to Eustace, they begged me to wait half an hour. If he failed to return in that time, they pledged themselves to accompany me in search of him to the hotel.

In mercy to Eustace I consented to wait. What I suffered under the forced necessity for remaining passive at that crisis in my life no words of mine can tell. It will be better if I go on with my narrative.

Benjamin was the first to ask me what had passed between my husband and myself.

“You may speak freely, my dear,” he said. “I know what has happened since you have been in Major Fitz-David’s house. No one has told me about it; I found it out for myself. If you remember, I was struck by the name of ‘Macallan,’ when you first mentioned it to me at my cottage. I couldn’t guess why at the time. I know why now.”

Hearing this, I told them both unreservedly what I had said to Eustace, and how he had received it. To my unspeakable disappointment, they both sided with my husband, treating my view of his position as a mere dream. They said it, as he had said it, “You have not read the Trial.”

I was really enraged with them. “The facts are enough for me,” I said. “We know he is innocent. Why is his innocence not proved? It ought to be, it must be, it shall be! If the Trial tell me it can’t be done, I refuse to believe the Trial. Where is the book, Major? Let me see for myself if his lawyers have left nothing for his wife to do. Did they love him as I love him? Give me the book!”

Major Fitz-David looked at Benjamin.

“It will only additionally shock and distress her if I give her the book,” he said. “Don’t you agree with me?”

I interposed before Benjamin could answer.

“If you refuse my request,” I said, “you will oblige me, Major, to go to the nearest bookseller and tell him to buy the Trial for me. I am determined to read it.”

This time Benjamin sided with me.

“Nothing can make matters worse than they are, sir,” he said. “If I may be permitted to advise, let her have her own way.”

The Major rose and took the book out of the Italian cabinet, to which he had consigned it for safe-keeping.

“My young friend tells me that she informed you of her regrettable outbreak of temper a few days since,” he said as he handed me the volume. “I was not aware at the time what book she had in her hand when she so far forgot herself as to destroy the vase. When I left you in the study, I supposed the Report of the Trial to be in its customary place on the top shelf of the book-case, and I own I felt some curiosity to know whether you would think of examining that shelf. The broken vase—it is needless to conceal it from you now—was one of a pair presented to me by your husband and his first wife only a week before the poor woman’s terrible death. I felt my first presentiment that you were on the brink of discovery when I found you looking at the fragments, and I fancy I betrayed to you that something of the sort was disturbing me. You looked as if you noticed it.”

“I did notice it, Major. And I too had a vague idea that I was on the way to discovery. Will you look at your watch? Have we waited half an hour yet?”

My impatience had misled me. The ordeal of the half-hour was not yet at an end.

Slowly and more slowly the heavy minutes followed each other, and still there were no signs of my husband’s return. We tried to continue our conversation, and failed. Nothing was audible; no sounds but the ordinary sounds of the street disturbed the dreadful silence. Try as I might to repel it, there was one foreboding thought that pressed closer and closer on my mind as the interval of waiting wore its weary way on. I shuddered as I asked myself if our married life had come to an end—if Eustace had really left me.

The Major saw what Benjamin’s slower perception had not yet discovered—that my fortitude was beginning to sink under the unrelieved oppression of suspense.

“Come!” he said. “Let us go to the hotel.”

It then wanted nearly five minutes to the half-hour. I looked my gratitude to Major Fitz-David for sparing me those last minutes: I could not speak to him or............