his father, whom no tragedy had the power to touch. He was like her—like his mother. He needed God as an excuse. She was safe: nothing could touch her, nothing could ever change her. She always had God to hold responsible. . . .
The forgotten cigarette, burning low, scorched his fingers, and, dropping it, he stepped on it mechanically, and, rising from the chair, saw suddenly a woman's handkerchief lying on the table among the dishes. It lay there, folded neatly, beneath a covering of dust and soot. He thought, "It must have been Naomi's. She must have dropped it here." The thing exerted an evil fascination over him. He wanted to go away, but he couldn't go, until he knew whose handkerchief it was. It couldn't have been Lily Shane's, for he or Mary would have noticed it. It couldn't have been Mary's: for she wouldn't have gone away from the table with it lying there, neat and unused, in full sight on the table. It must have belonged to Naomi. He wanted to go away without even looking, but he had not the strength. It lay there tormenting him. He would never have any peace if he went away in ignorance.
At last his hand, as if it moved of its own will, reached out and picked it up. It left behind a small square free of dust on the surface of the table. It was a tiny handkerchief, frail and feminine, and in the corner it was marked with initials. They were . . . M.C. There wasn't the slightest doubt. . . . M.C. . . . M.C. . . . Mary Conyngham.
He saw then what must have happened—that Mary had dropped it somewhere in the room, and Naomi, searching for some clue, had found it and left it lying behind on the table. It was Naomi's hand that had
