It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction.
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