He turned the pages, picking out every reference to B
M. “B. M. told me the story of his childhood. His mother went out charring. When I think of it, I can hardly bear to go on living in such luxury. Three guineas for one hat! He had lent her books. Karl Marx, The Coming Revolution. The initials B. M., B. M., B. M., recurred repeatedly. But why never the full name? There was an informality, an intimacy in the use of initials that was very unlike Angela. Had she called him B. M. to his face? He read on. M. came unexpectedly after dinner. Luckily, I was alone. He checked the date in his engagement book. It had been the night of the Mansion House dinner.
And B. M. and Angela had spent the evening alone! He tried to recall that evening. Was she waiting up for him when he came back? Had the room looked just as usual? Were there glasses on the table? Were the chairs drawn close together? He could remember nothing -nothing whatever, nothing except his own speech at the Mansion House dinner. It became more and more inexplicable to him-the whole situation; his wife receiving an unknown man alone. Perhaps the next volume would explain. Hastily he reached for the last of the diaries-the one she had left unfinished when she died. There, on the very first page, was that cursed fellow again. M. He became very agitated. He said it was time we understood each other.
I tried to make him listen. But he would not. He threatened that if I did not. She had written “Egypt. Egypt. Egypt,” over the whole page. He could not make out a single word; but there could be only one interpretation: the scoundrel had asked her to become his mistress. Alone in his room! The blood rushed to Gilbert Clandon’s face.