During the two years which Mistrial had passed in the society of his wife, opportunities of studying her there had been in plenty.  He knew her to be docile and headstrong; weak, if at all, but with that weakness that comes of lassitude; violent when provoked, prone to forgive, sensitive, impulsive, yet obdurate; in brief, the type of woman that may be entreated, but never coerced.  He knew her faults so well he could have enumerated them one after the other on his finger-tips:  her qualities, however, had impressed him less; it may be that he had accepted them as a matter of course.  He was aware that she was honest; he had noticed that she was capable of much self-sacrifice; of other characteristics he had given little heed.  It goes without the telling, that in regard to what is known as jealousy he had not suffered even an evanescent disquietude.  And that night and during the morning that followed, as he occupied himself in nursing the idea which had visited him on horseback, that particular fact occurred to him more than once.  But one does not need to be a conspirator to understand that the steadiest virtue is as susceptible of vice as iron is of rust.

Justine had announced that her cousin was still in love with her; she had announced with equal distinctness that she recognized her own mistake; while for himself he was convinced that she no longer cared.  To these things he added certain deductions which his experience of men and women permitted him to draw; and had the result they presented been made to order, it could not have fitted more perfectly into the scheme which he had devised.

It was then high noon.  Through the window came the irresistible breath of a rose in bloom.  As he left the house it surrounded him in the street.  He smiled a greeting at it.  “I have spring in my favor,” he mused, and presently boarded a car.

The principles of successful enterprise may be summarized as consisting of a minute regard for details, and an apparent absence of zeal.  Mistrial’s many mistakes had taught him the one and trained him in the other.  When the car he had taken reached the Gilsey House, he alighted, hailed a four-wheeler, stationed it in such a manner that it commanded a view of the adjacent street, coached the driver in regard to a signal he might give, entered the cab, lit a cigarette, and prepared to wait.

In that neighborhood there are four or five basement houses of the style that is affectioned by milliners, dentists, and physicians.  One of these particularly claimed Mistrial’s attention.  He saw a woman in gray enter it, and almost simultaneously a woman come out; then a man leading a child went in; and in a little while the first woman reappeared.  Mistrial glanced at his watch; it lacked a minute of one.  “He has a larger practice than I thought,” he reflected.  The woman in gray had now nearly reached the cab in which he sat, and from sheer force of habit he was preparing to scrutinize her as she passed, when the door of the house reopened and Thorold appeared on the step.  He looked up the street, then down.  He had his hat on, and his every-day air.  In a second Mistrial had drawn the curtain and was peering through the opening at the side.  He saw Thorold leave the step and turn toward Fifth Avenue; he signalled to the driver, and the cab moved on.

At the corner Thorold turned again, the cab at his heels, and Mistrial saw that the physician was moving in the direction of Madison Square.  It occurred to him that Thorold might be going to Mr. Dunellen’s, and on the block below, as the latter crossed the asphalt, he made sure of it.  But opposite the Brunswick the cab stopped; Thorold was entering the restaurant.

Cold chicken looks attractive in print.  A minute or two later, as Mistrial examined the bill of fare, he ordered some for himself; he ordered also a Demidorf salad, ­a compound of artichokes’ hearts and truffles, familiarly known as Half-Mourning, ­and until the waiter returned hid himself behind a paper.  Thorold meanwhile, who was seated at an adjoining table, must have ordered something which required longer preparation, for Mistrial finished the salad before the physician was served.  But Mistrial was in no hurry; he had a pint of claret brought him, and sipped it leisurely.  Now and then he glanced over at Thorold, and twice he caught his eye.  At last Thorold called for his bill.  Mistrial paid his own, and presently followed him out into the street.  When both reached the sidewalk, Mistrial, who was a trifle in the rear, touched him on the arm.

“Thorold,” he said; and the physician turned, but there was nothing engaging in his attitude:  he held his head to one side, about his lips was a compression, a contraction in his eyes; one arm was pendent, the other pressed to his waistcoat, and the shoulder of that arm was slightly raised.  He looked querulous and annoyed ­a trifle startled, too.

“Thorold,” Mistrial repeated, “give me a moment, will you?”

The physician raised the arm that he had pressed against his waistcoat, and, with four fingers straightened and the fifth askew, stroked an imaginary whisker.

“It is about Justine,” Mistrial continued.  “She is out of sorts; I want you to see her.”

“Ah!” And Thorold looked down and away.

“Yes, I had intended to speak to Dr. McMasters; but when by the merest chance I saw you in there I told myself that, whatever our differences might be, there was no one who would understand the case more readily than you.”

As Mistrial spoke he imitated the discretion of his enemy; he looked down and away.  The next moment, however, both were gazing into each other’s face.

“H’m.”  Thorold, as he stared, seemed to muse.  “I saw her the other day,” he said, at last; “she looked well enough then.”

“But can’t a person look well and yet be out of sorts?”

Mistrial was becoming angry, and he showed it.  It was evident, however, that his irritation was caused less by the man to whom he spoke than by the physician whom he was seeking to consult.  This Thorold seemed to grasp, for he answered perplexedly: 

“After what has happened I don’t see very well how I can go to your house.”

“Look here, Thorold:  the past is over and done with ­ill done, you will say, and I admit it.  Be that as it may, it has gone.  At the same time there is no reason why any shadow of it should fall on Justine.  She is really in need of some one’s advice.  Can you not give it to her?”

“Certainly,” Thorold answered, “I can do that;” and he looked very sturdy as he said it.  “Only ­”

“Only what?  If you can’t go as a friend, at least you might go as a physician.”

Thorold’s hand had slid from his cheek to his chin, and he nibbled reflectively at a finger-nail.

“Very good,” he said; “I will go to her.  Is she to be at home this afternoon?”

“The evening would be better, I think.  Unless, of course ­” and Mistrial made a gesture as though to imply that, if Thorold’s evening were engaged, a visit in the afternoon might be attempted.

But the suggestion presumably was acceptable.  Thorold drew out a note-book, at which he glanced.

“And I say,” Mistrial continued, “I wish ­you see, it is a delicate matter; Justine is very sensitive ­I wish you wouldn’t say you met me.  Just act as though ­”

“Give yourself no uneasiness, sir.”  Thorold had replaced the note-book and looked up again in Mistrial’s face.  “I never mention your name.”  And thereat, with a toss of the head, he dodged an omnibus and crossed the street.

For a moment Mistrial gazed after him, then he turned, and presently he was ordering a glass of brandy at the Brunswick bar.

It was late that night when he reached his home.  During the days that followed he had no fixed hours at all.  Several times he entered the apartment with the smallest amount of noise that was possible, and listened at the sitting-room door.  At last he must have heard something that pleased him, for as he sought his own room he smiled. “Maintenant, mon cher, je te tiens.”

The next day he surprised Justine by informing her that he intended to pay a visit to a relative.  He was gone a week.