letter into the post and off your hands, so that you can't recall it if you would, and it's no use fussing any more about it?'
'I will do as you wish,' he said, and turned to the paper, which he dated as from his hotel. Mrs. Manderson looked down at his bent head with a gentle light in her eyes, and made as if to place a smoothing hand upon his rather untidy crop of hair. But she did not touch it. Going in silence to the piano, she began to play very softly. It was ten minutes before Trent spoke.
'If he chooses to reply that he will say nothing?'
Mrs. Manderson looked over her shoulder. 'Of course he dare not take that line. He will speak to prevent you from denouncing him.'
'But I'm not going to do that anyhow. You wouldn't allow it–you said so; besides, I won't if you would. The thing's too doubtful now.'
'But,' she laughed, 'poor Mr Marlowe doesn't know you won't, does he?'
Trent sighed. 'What extraordinary things codes of honour are!' he remarked abstractedly.
