"How long do you wish me to keep away?" she asked calmly.
"A few minutes only," he answered. "You will find me here when
Parkinson has shown you round."
He held the door open and she passed out, with a single upward and
wondering glance. Wingrave closed the door, and seated himself close
to where Barrington was standing.
"Barrington," he said, "twenty years ago we were friends. Since then
we have been enemies. Today, so far as I am concerned, we are
neither."
Barrington started a little. His lips twitched nervously. He did not
quite understand.
"I am sure, Wingrave--" he began.
Wingrave interrupted him ruthlessly.
"I give you credit," he continued, "for understanding that my attitude
towards you since I--er--reappeared, has been inimical. I intended you
to speculate, and you did speculate. I meant you to lose, and you have
lost. The money I lent to your wife was meant to remain a rope around
your neck. The fact that I lent it to her was intended to humiliate
you, the attentions which I purposely paid to her in public were
intended to convey a false impression to society--and in this, too, I
fancy that I have been successful."
Barrington drew a thick breath--the dull color was mounting to his
cheeks.
Wingrave continued calmly--
"I had possibly in my mind, at one time," he said, "the idea of
drawing things on to a climax--of witnessing the final disappearance
of yourself and your wife from the world--such as we know it.
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