He had been so intent upon the administration of poetic justice, so intent upon condignly punishing the false friend who had dishonoured him, upon finding a balm for his lacerated soul in the spectacle of Tremayne's own ignominy, that he had never paused to see whither all this might lead him.
He had been a fool to have adopted these subtle, tortuous ways; a fool not to have obeyed the earlier and honest impulse which had led him to take that case of pistols from the drawer.

And he was served as a fool deserves to be served.

His folly had recoiled upon him to destroy him.
Fool's mate had checked his perfidious vengeance at a blow.
Why had Sylvia Armytage discarded her honour to make of it a cloak for the protection of Tremayne?
Did she love Tremayne and take that desperate way to save a life she accounted lost, or was it that she knew the truth, and out of affection for Una had chosen to immolate herself?
Sir Terence was no psychologist.

But he found it difficult to believe in so much of self-sacrifice from a woman for a woman's sake, however dear.

Therefore he held to the first alternative.