I saw the repulsion, the horror, in Ackroyd’s face. So Mrs. Ferrars must have

seen it. Ackroyd is not the type of the great lover who can forgive all for

love’s sake. He is fundamentally a good citizen. All that was sound and

wholesome and law-abiding in him must have turned from her utterly in that

moment of revelation.

 

“Yes,” he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, “she confessed everything. It

seems that there is one person who has known all along—who has been blackmailing

her for huge sums. It was the strain of that that drove her nearly mad.”

 

“Who was the man?”

 

Suddenly before my eyes there arose the picture of Ralph Paton and Mrs.

 

Ferrars side by side. Their heads so close together. I felt a momentary throb of

anxiety. Supposing—oh! but surely that was impossible. I remembered the

frankness of Ralph’s greeting that very afternoon.

 

Absurd!

 

“She wouldn’t tell me his name,” said Ackroyd slowly. “As a matter of fact, she

didn’t actually say that it was a man. But of course——”

 

“Of course,” I agreed. “It must have been a man. And you’ve no suspicion at

all?”