Mrs. Beach sighed herself ponderously down the dark stairs. Stephen went back into his room with a startling sense of elation. He had done that well. It would be marvellously easy if it was all like that. That word “naughty” had been a masterpiece; he was proud of it. Already he had set moving a plausible explanation of Emily’s disappearance⁠—Emily’s frailty⁠—Emily’s “friend.” Cook would do the rest. Mentally he chuckled.

Suddenly then he appreciated the vileness on which he was congratulating himself, and the earlier blackness settled upon him. Something like conscience, something like remorse, had room to stir in place of his abated fears. It was going to be a wretched business, this “easy” lying and hypocrisy and deceit⁠—endless stretches of wickedness seemed to open out before him. What a mess it was! How the devil had it happened⁠—to him, Stephen Byrne, the reputed, respectable young author?