Lieutenant Valcour tested the possibility of that angle. It could not, he felt, be ignored. As many outrages were yearly committed under the goadings of pride as there were committed because of jealousy and hate.
“You believe, Mr. Hollander, that the other women whom her husband played around with hurt her pride so keenly that her love became coloured with hate?”
“Why not?” A certain fierceness crept into Hollander’s voice. His eyes were shining very brightly. “People don’t know her as I know her. Nobody knows her the way I know her.”
Lieutenant Valcour shrugged. “She made you hate your friend—a man you’d been through the war with—whose life you had saved.”
“That’s the bunk, Lieutenant.”
“But you did, didn’t you?”
“Oh, sure, it’s all true enough, about it happening—but that stuff doesn’t last.”
“Friendship?”
“Among men? Hell, no.” Hollander jerked his head fretfully. “Gratitude gets damned tiresome, Lieutenant, not only to give it but to get it.”
“Especially,” Lieutenant Valcour said gently, “if a woman comes between.”
“No—no—no.”
There was a complete and very convincing finality in the three negations.
“But you do love Mrs. Endicott.”
“I worship her.”