grille in the wall, behind which Mrs. Peyton stood on the morning when
he thought he was leaving the ranch forever; where he had first clasped
her in his arms, and stayed. A turn of the head, a moment's indecision,
a single glance of a languorous eye, had brought this culmination. And
now he stood again before that ruined grille, his house and lands, even
his NAME, misused by a mad, scheming enthusiast, and himself a creeping
spy of his own dishonor! He turned with a bitter smile again to the
garden. A few dark red Castilian roses still leaned forward and swayed
in the wind with dripping leaves. It was here that the first morning of
his arrival he had kissed Susy; the perfume and color of her pink skin
came back to him with a sudden shock as he stood there; he caught at a
flower, drew it towards him, inhaled its odor in a long breath that left
him faint and leaning against the wall. Then again he smiled, but this
time more wickedly--in what he believed his cynicism had sprung up the
first instinct of revenge!
It was now dark enough for him to venture across the carriage road and
make his way to the rear of the house. His first characteristic instinct
had been to enter openly at his own front gate, but the terrible
temptation to overhear and watch the conspiracy unobserved--that
fascination common to deceived humanity to witness its own shame--had
now grown upon him. He knew that a word or gesture of explanation,
apology, appeal, or even terror from his wife would check his rage and
weaken his purpose. His perfect knowledge of the house and the security
of its inmates would enable him from some obscure landing or gallery
to participate in any secret conclave they might hold in the patio--the
only place suitable for so numerous a rendezvous. The absence of light
in the few external windows pointed to this central gathering. And he
had already conceived his plan of entrance.
Gaining the rear wall of the casa he began cautiously to skirt its
brambly base until he had reached a long, oven-like window half
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