"I ... I said almost----" Anstice positively stammered, so taken by surprise was he.
"Well, that's enough to be going on with." Carstairs spoke resolutely. "Look here, I'll tell you something I meant to keep to myself. For the last two months--ever since I received my wife's short and formal letter telling me of Cherry's accident--I've been haunted by the thought that perhaps after all I was mistaken--frightfully, appallingly mistaken, in the conclusion I came to at the time of the trial. At first I was convinced, as you know, that the verdict was the only possible one; and, although it nearly killed me, I could do nothing but leave her and return to India alone. But in the last few weeks I have asked myself whether after all I have not made a terrible mistake. Supposing my wife were innocent, that her silence were the only possible course open to a proud and honourable woman ... supposing that a grievous wrong had been done, and the real writer of those letters allowed to escape scot-free. Oh, there were endless suppositions once I began to dwell on the possibility of my wife's absolute ignorance of the vile things ... and when at last I was able to sail for England I came home with the full determination to go into the matter once more, to rake up, if necessary, the whole sad affair from the beginning, and see whether there were not some other solution to the mystery than the one I was forced to accept at the time of the trial."
"You mean that, sir?" Anstice spoke eagerly, and the other man nodded. "Then I'm bound to say I think it is something more than coincidence that has brought us together to-day. I'm not a religious fellow, and I always feel that if there be a God He went back on me years ago in a way I had not deserved, but I do think that there is something more than chance in our meeting; and if good comes out of it, and the truth is brought to light, well"--he laughed with a sudden gaiety that surprised himself--"I'll forget my old grudge against the Almighty and admit there is justice in the world after all!"
"Dr. Anstice," said Carstairs, "I don't understand you. Would you mind explaining a little more clearly just what you mean? Why should a meeting between you and me be anything more than the prelude--as I hope it may be--to a very pleasant friendship? I honour your belief in my wife, but when you speak of proof----"