Marble made one of the greatest mistakes of his life when he said “no” for the fifth time that morning. The flush on Marguerite’s cheeks became deeper; she was scarlet with indignation. It is doubtful why Marble should have said it; a single one of those unspent hundreds from his annual income would have ended the matter for the time. But the refusal slipped out of his mouth before he was aware of it; he was only trying to temporize. City caution told him that this was blackmail, and that it is fatal to yield to a blackmailer; he also realized at the back of his mind that he most certainly had not in the house at that moment enough ready money to satisfy her, and he was not going to give her a cheque—not he. So he said “no” really meaning “yes,” and had he not been so dull-witted that morning he would have bitten his tongue out rather than have said it.
Marguerite condescended to use a threat or two.
“That is a pity,” she said, “for I must have my freedom. If I were to tell my husband one or two little things—ah, he would set me free, do you not think so? But it would cost you much money, more than what I have stooped to ask you. And your wife, she would not like that to happen, would she? She does not know at present, eh? If you would like her to—?”
Marble’s face had turned from pale to flushed and back again to pallor.
The stab had gone home. Anything rather than let Annie know. Annie held the key of his life in her hand; she had guessed his secret, he was sure of it. The knowledge had troubled him little up to the moment. She had been a cipher in his life for so long that he had hardly cared, save that it had made it uncomfortable to meet her eyes. But if Annie were to know of this! His drink-dazed mind realized for the first time how desperately necessary it was that Annie should be kept in a good humour. The terror in his breast made him lose control over himself.
“All right, I’ll pay you,” he said. “How much is it?”
He had cut the ground from under his feet. He had shown her which was the best course of action; he had shown her how much he feared Annie’s knowing; by his earlier refusal and later hurried agreement he had delivered himself over bound and naked to his enemy. Marguerite laughed a little, a malicious, throaty laugh. Then she spoke, mentioning the sum quite as if it were a matter of course.
“Three hundred pounds.”
“I—I can’t afford all that!”
The surprise in Mr. Marble’s voice was obvious and genuine; but Marguerite was quick-witted enough to see that he really could afford the huge sum.
“Three hundred pounds,” she said again.
“But I haven’t got all that in the house, and a cheque—”
“It is a cheque that I want,” said Madame Collins grimly, and seeing him still hesitate for a moment she added, “And your wife will be back soon, will she not?”
Marble went over to the gilt bureau and wrote out the cheque.
She was just re-clasping her handbag when they heard Annie Marble’s key in the door. When she entered the room Marble was the one that was obviously discomposed. She herself was honey-sweet as usual, calm and self-possessed.
“I have come to say goodbye,” she said. “Tomorrow I go to France.”
“To France?”
“Yes, I am going to have a holiday. I am sorry that you were out when I came, for I have so much to do that I fear I cannot stay. No, no, really I cannot. Goodbye, dear Mrs. Marble. I will send you a postcard from Rouen.”
With that she was gone. It was rather a pity that Mr. Marble should have been so obviously anxious to get rid of her. Why, she herself was most anxious to be out of the house too, so that she could hurry and cash that cheque before Marble could stop it, if by chance he recovered his spirits enough to do anything like that, but she showed no signs of it at all. It was perfectly true that at the time Mrs. Marble did not notice her husband’s nervousness, but little things like that, as time had already shown, had a way of staying in Mrs. Marble’s memory and re-emerging at inconvenient moments.
After Madame Collins’ departure Mr. Marble eyed his wife anxiously. He had realized now that she was a person of immense importance to his affairs, and, what was more, that she was, after all, someone who might, should it so happen, act independently. He had grown so used all his life to regarding her as the very reverse of a free agent, as obedient to himself almost as one of his own limbs, that the reflection that she might not be so startled him. There was only one thing, Marble knew, that would make her break out contrary to his wishes, but that was the least accountable of all factors. If Annie got to know that he had been unfaithful to her; if she had it forced home upon her that his love for her—if ever it had existed; and it had in her imagination, which was all that mattered—was dead, then she would be capable of doing the most unexpected things. She would not deliberately betray him—not even terror-maddened Marble thought that—but she might in her consternation allow something to escape her that would set in action that swarm of rumours and the resultant investigation that Mr. Marble so dreaded. It was of the first importance that she should continue to think he loved her. And the fact that he endowed this circumstance with its full importance was directly due to Madame Collins. At the
