“Every word.”
“An’ you see now ’ow it is I can fix the d’y?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, I sees no more of Foxey. I missed ’im about the Square, so one d’y I axes at the rank, – ‘Where’s Foxey?’ An’ where d’ye think ’e was?”
“I can not tell.”
“In quod.”
“In jail. Why?”
“That’s hit. That’s number two of the twos. Pardon me, but I’m gettin’ a bit mixed. Well, it seems that that very night, comin’ back from Putney as drunk as a lord, old Foxey runs over a barrer. ’E an’ the coster ’as a fight. The police come, and Foxey dots one bobby in the blinkers and another on the boko. You wouldn’t think it was in ’im. ’E must ’ave bin paralytic.”
“So he was locked up?”
“Locked up! ’E was dragged there by the ’eels. Next mornin’ ’e comes before the beak. ‘We was all drunk together, your wurshup,’ ’e says. ‘I took a fare from the City to Sloane Square, an’ ’e left me for more’n an hour. ’E comes back excited like – bin boozin’ ’ard, I suppose – brings my keb up to a ’ouse, carries in a lydy who was that ’toxicated she couldn’t stand, an’ tells me to drive to Putney. We gits there, an’ I says ‘you’ve nearly killed my ’oss, guv’nor.’ With that ’e tips me a fiver – a five-pun note, your wurshup.’ ‘What has that got to do with the charge?’ says the beak. ‘Wot?’ says Foxey. ‘If a chap give you a fiver for drivin’ ’im to Putney wouldn’t you get drunk?’ With that the magistrate gives ’im three months for assaulting the police, and fines ’im the balance of the fiver for bein’ drunk in charge of a ’oss and keb.”
The ticket collector took a long drink after this recital.
“I hope you will not follow Foxey’s example,” said Bruce, rising.
“’Ow do you mean, sir?”
“Because I am going to keep my word. Here are the four sovereigns I owe you. In your case your two and two have made five.”
“Thank you, sir. You’re a brick. No fear of me meltin’ this little lot. The missus will be on ’em like a bird w’en I tell her.” And the man spat upon the coins with evident relish as he handled them.
“One word more,” said Bruce. “Where was this man tried?”
“At the West London Police Court.”
“You can get me his real name and post it to me?”
“Sure, sir. Anyway, I’ll try.”
“I am greatly obliged to you.”
“An’ ’as my yarn bin of any use to you, sir?”
“The greatest. It has solved a puzzle. However, I will see you again. Good-bye. Don’t forget to write.”
“Cornhill is the direct line from Leadenhall Street,” mused Claude, when he was alone. “Any one coming to Sloane Square from Dodge & Co.’s office would pass through it. Upon my word, things look very black against Mensmore. Yet I cannot believe it.”
CHAPTER XVII
A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION
Bruce now had several lines of inquiry open.
Apart from the main and vital question as to the exact method of Lady Dyke’s death, and the identity of the person responsible for it, a number of important matters required attention.
Why had Jane Harding quitted her situation so suddenly?
Whence did she obtain the money that enabled her to blossom forth as Marie le Marchant?
Who was Sydney H. Corbett?
Why did Mensmore adopt a false name; and, in any case, why adopt the name of Corbett?
Why did Mrs. Hillmer exhibit such sudden terror lest her brother might be guilty?
Whom did Mrs. Hillmer marry? Was her husband alive or dead?
Was the man who conveyed Lady Dyke’s body from Raleigh Mansions to Putney responsible also for her death?
Finally, why did he select that particular portion of the Thames banks for the bestowal of his terrible burden?
Many other minor features suggested themselves for careful attention, but the barrister knew that if he elucidated some of the major questions the rest would answer themselves.
The last query promised to yield a good crop of information should it be satisfactorily dealt with. Turning to his notes, he found that the former owner of the Putney house was a tutor or preparatory schoolmaster, named the Rev. Septimus Childe.
Could it be that this was the school in which both Sir Charles Dyke and Mensmore were fellow-students? If so, Bruce failed to see why he should not forthwith place the whole of the facts in his possession at the service of the police, and allow the law to take its course.
On this supposition, the case against Mensmore was very black; not, indeed, incapable of explanation – for circumstantial evidence occasionally plays strange pranks with logic – but of such a grave nature that no private individual would be justified in keeping his knowledge to himself.
The deduction was intensely disagreeable; but Bruce resolved to coerce his thoughts, and do that which was right, irrespective of consequences.
He did not possess a Clergy List. No letter came from Mrs. Hillmer, so he walked across the Park to his club in Pall Mall to consult the appropriately bound black and white volume which gives reference to the many degrees of the Church of England.
Septimus Childe was a distinctive, though simple, name. And it was not there. There was not a Childe with a final “e” in the whole book. Without that important letter, as his informant might be mistaken, there were several. Close scrutiny of each man’s designation and duties convinced him that though any of these might be one of the particular Childe’s children, none answered to the description of the gentleman he sought.
Of course, he could always apply to Sir Charles Dyke, but he dreaded approaching the grief-stricken baronet on this matter. Now there was no help for it. The barrister was beginning to feel impatient at the constant difficulties which barred progress in each direction. After all, it was a small thing merely to ask his friend if he ever knew a reverend gentleman named Childe.
Bruce was sure that Sir Charles would not be acquainted with Mr. Childe, and also with the fact that the Putney house had served as his school, for it would be strange beyond credence if it were so that he had not mentioned it.
The weather was still clear and cold, and a wintry sun made walking pleasant. Claude, on quitting his club, set out again on foot. He crossed St. James’s Square, Jermyn Street, and Piccadilly, and made his way to Oxford Street up New Bond Street.
Not often did he frequent these fashionable thoroughfares, and he had an excellent reason. When walking, he was given to abstraction, and seldom saw his acquaintances if he encountered them in unusual quarters. He would thus cut dead a woman at whose house he had dined the previous evening, or, when he was in practice at the Bar, fail to notice the salutation of his own leader.
To Claude himself this short-coming was intolerable; consciousness of it when in the West made him the most alert man in the crowd to note anybody whom he knew, except on the rare occasions when he forgot his failing.
This morning Bond Street was pleasantly full. People were beginning to return to town. Parliament re-assembled in a few days, and he passed many who were on his visiting list.
Outside a well-known costumer’s he saw a brougham, into which a lady had just been assisted by the commissionaire.
It is no uncommon thing to recognize an acquaintance by the color of his horse, or the peculiar cut of the coachman’s whiskers. This time Bruce knew the driver as well as the equipage, but the lady was not Mrs. Hillmer.
Instantly he was at the door, with his hat lifted; he assumed an expression of polite regret as he saw Dobson, the maid, in her mistress’s place.
“Sorry,” he said, “I knew the carriage, and thought that Mrs. Hillmer was inside. She is well, I trust.”
“Not very, sir,” answered the maid with an angry pout.
“Indeed, what is the matter?”
“Madame is going away, and has put us all on board wages.”
Dobson had some of the privileges of a companion, and resented this relegation to the servants’ hall.
“Going away?” cried Bruce. “A sudden departure, eh?”
The girl was arranging some parcels on the seat in front of her. She was not disinclined for a conversation with this good-looking gentleman, so she smiled archly, as she said: “Didn’t you know, sir? I thought you would know all about it.”
What he might have ascertained by a longer chat the barrister could not tell, for an interruption occurred. The coachman was more loyal to his mistress than the maid.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he cried, “but the missus told us to hurry”; and he whipped his steed into the passing stream of carriages.
“More complications,” murmured Claude. “Mrs. Hillmer contemplates a bolt. Shall I pay her another visit and surprise her? No, confound it, I will not. Let her go, and let things take their course.”
Not in the most amiable frame of mind at this discovery, he pursued his walk to Portman Square.
Sir Charles Dyke was at home. He always was, now.
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Bruce,” whispered Thompson in the hall, “try to persuade Sir Charles to quit smokin’, and readin’, and thinkin’. He sits all day in the library and ’ardly has anything to eat.”
Claude reproached himself for having neglected his resolution to stir his friend into something like animation. He was wondering what he should do in the matter, when the baronet rose at his entrance, saying, with a weary smile:
“Well, old fellow, what news?”
The other suddenly decided to throw all questioning to the winds for the moment. “I have come to bring you out. I won’t hear of a refusal. Let us walk to the club and have lunch and a game of billiards.”
Sir Charles protested. He had slept badly and was tired.
“All the more reason that you should sleep well to-night. Come, now, be advised. You will allow yourself to become a hopeless invalid if you go on in this way.”
Dyke unwillingly consented, and they left the house. The older man brightened up considerably amidst the bustle of the streets. His color returned, he talked with some degree of cheerfulness, and even laughed as he said:
“I never understood you were a doctor, Claude, in addition to your other varied acquirements. For the first time since – since November last, I feel hungry.”
“Why don’t you take my advice, and go away for some shooting? It is not too late, even now, to go after a hare.”
“I will think of it. I wonder who we shall meet at the club.”
“Lots of fellows, no doubt. And, by the way, you must be prepared for one little difficulty. Suppose they ask about your wife?”
The baronet’s momentary gaiety vanished. He stopped short, and clutched Bruce’s arm. “Don’t you see,” he almost moaned, “that this is the reason I have remained indoors for so long? What shall I say?”
“You must make the best of it. Say, off-handedly, you don’t know where she is – either with relations or in Italy. Anything will do, and it will create a false impression.”
“I am sick of false impressions. I cannot do it.”
“You must.”
The stronger will prevailed, and they entered the doors of the Imperial, where, of course, Dyke was hailed at once by a dozen men.
“Hallo, Charlie! Been seedy?”
“Good gracious, Dyke! have you had influenza? I’ve missed you for months, now I come to think of it.”
“I haven’t seen your wife for quite a time. How is she?”
In the multitude of questions there was safety.
Sir Charles answered vaguely, and a chance arrival created a diversion by announcing that the favorite had broken down in his preparation for the Grand National.
Later in the afternoon, the two found themselves ensconced in a quiet corner of the smoking-room. Bruce seized the opportunity.
“You told me,” he said, “that Mensmore and you were at school together?”
“Did I?” said the baronet.
“Yes; don’t you remember?”
“I get mixed up in thinking about things. But it is all right. We were.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Oh, a private establishment kept by an old chap called Septimus Childe, – Lucky Number was our nickname for him.”
Bruce betrayed no surprise at this startlingly simple statement. He said casually:
“I mean where was the school situated?”
“At Brighton in my time. But afterwards he shifted to some place near London – something to do with examinations, I fancy.”
“But don’t you know where?”
“How should I? I was at Sandhurst then. I believe the old boy is dead. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it has something to do with the inquiry. I won’t trouble you now with the details.”
“Go on, I can stand it.”
“But where is the good in paining you needlessly?”
“That stage has passed, old chap. My wife’s memory has almost become a dream to me.”
“Well, it is an extraordinary thing, but that place where – that house at Putney, you know, must have been the new school of the Rev. Septimus Childe.”
“How did you learn that?”
“I have known it for months, ever since the inquest.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“True, but at the time it seemed of no consequence. Now that Mensmore turns out to be a pupil of his, and probably passed the remainder of his early school days at that very establishment, the incident assumes a degree of importance.”
Sir Charles looked earnestly at his friend as he put his next question: “Tell me, Claude, do you seriously believe that Mensmore had anything to do with my wife’s death?”
“I cannot honestly give you a satisfactory answer.”
“But what do you think?”
“If you press me I will try to put my opinion into words. Mensmore was in some mysterious way associated with the crime; but the degree of association, and whether conscious or unconscious, I do not know.”
“What do you mean by ‘conscious or unconscious’?”
“I am sure that Lady Dyke met her death in his residence; but it is impossible to say now if he was aware of her presence. He was in London at the time, that is quite certain.”
“Do the police know all this?”
“No.”
“I am glad of it. Mensmore did not kill my wife. The suggestion is absurd – wildly absurd.”
“Things look black against him, nevertheless.”
“I tell you it is nonsense. You are on the wrong track, Bruce. What possible reason could he have had to decoy my wife to his flat and there murder her?”
“None, perhaps.”
“Then why do you hesitate to agree with me?”
“Because there is a woman in the case.”
“Another woman?”
“Yes; Mensmore’s sister, or half-sister, to be exact. She also lives in Raleigh Mansions.”
“Indeed. So all kinds of things have been going on without my knowledge. Yet you promised faithfully to keep me informed of every incident that transpired.”
“I am sorry, Dyke; but you were so upset – ”
“Upset, man. Don’t you realize that this affair is all I have to think about in the world?”
The baronet was so disturbed that Claude at once made up his mind to tell him as little as possible in the future. These constant possibilities of rupture between them must be avoided at all hazard.
To change the conversation he said: “Never mind; this time you must pardon my inadvertence. How do your wife’s people bear the continued mystery of her disappearance?”
“At first they were awfully cut up. But lately they have been reconciled to her death, which they say must have resulted from accident, and that her identity must have been mixed up with that of some other person. Such things do happen, you know. Anyway, her sister has gone into mourning for her. You didn’t hear, I suppose, that I have made my little nephew my heir?”
“Was that step necessary at your time of life?”
“I shall never marry again, Bruce.”
“Well, let us drop the subject. You have done right as regards the boy under present circumstances; but, as a man of the world, I only point out that it is an unwise thing to bring up a youngster in expectation of something which chance might determine differently.”
“Chance! There is no chance! My wife cannot return from the grave!”
“True. You have done right, no doubt. But the suddenness of the thing caused me to speak unwittingly.”
They were silent for a little while, when Sir Charles returned to the subject nearest his heart.
“Has your search developed in other directions?”
Bruce fenced with the query. “To be candid,” he said, “I am now most busily engaged in the not very difficult task of throwing dust in the eyes of the police. My motives are hardly definite to myself, but I do not want this unfortunate man, Mensmore, to be arrested until I have personally become convinced of his guilt.”
“You are right. Your instinct seldom fails you. I question if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife.”
“Ah! You see you have hit upon the difficulty. Show me her reason for making that secret journey, and I will tell you how she met her death.”
His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old friend of Dyke’s had entered the room and came toward them.
A few minutes later Bruce quitted the Imperial and drove to his chambers, where he found a note from the ticket collector stating that Foxey’s name was William Marsh.
The day was still young, and the barrister paid a visit to the West London Police Court, where the records soon revealed the conviction of the cab-driver and the period of his sentence.
“Let me see,” said the resident inspector, “his time at Holloway is up on February 6. That is a Monday, and as Sunday doesn’t count, he will be liberated on the 4th, about 8 A.M. That is the habit, sir, in the matter of short sentences. If you want to see him when he leaves the jail you can either wait at the gates or at the nearest public-house, where the prisoners go for their first drink. They seldom or never miss.”
Bruce thanked the official and returned home.
He was on the point of going out to drive, when he received a letter from Sir Charles Dyke. It ran:
“My Dear Claude, – Today’s experiences have taught me to take the inevitable step of announcing my wife’s death. Hence, I have forwarded the enclosed notice to an advertisement agency, with instructions to insert it in the principal papers. I have also decided to follow your advice and leave town for a few days. I am going to Wensley, my place in Yorkshire, should you happen to want me.
“Yours,“Charles Dyke.”
The notice read:
“Dyke. – On November 6, Alice, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, Bart., suddenly, at London.”
Next morning it figured in the obituary columns of many newspapers. Bruce, though taken back by the suddenness of his friend’s resolve, saw no reason to endeavor to dissuade him. In the words of the letter, it was “the inevitable step.”
CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA
The White Heather swung quietly at her moorings in the harbor of Genoa the Superb. The lively company on board, tired after a day’s sight-seeing, had left the marble streets and palace cafés to the Genoese, and sought the pleasant seclusion of the yacht’s airy promenade deck.
“Dinner on board, followed by a dance,” said Phyllis, as arbiter of the procedure. A few hasty invitations sent out to British residents in Genoa met with general acceptance, and the lull between afternoon tea and the more formal meal was a grateful interlude.
Genoa is so shut in by its amphitheatre of hills that unless a gale blows from the west its bay is unruffled, and its atmosphere oppressively hot during the day, even in the winter months.
Sir William Browne’s excursion had proved so attractive to those invited that the White Heather was taken farther along the coast than was originally intended. When all the best known resorts of the Riviera itself were exploited, some one, probably prompted thereto by Phyllis or Mensmore, suggested a run to Genoa.
They had been in the port three days, and on the morrow would hand the yacht over to the owner’s agents, those on board separating on their different routes. The Brownes went to Florence and Rome, and Mensmore was pretending to hold out against a pressing request to accompany them, cordially given by his prospective father-in-law.
This afternoon Phyllis and he were leaning over the taffrail and discussing the point.
The young lady was slightly inclined to be angry. Her eyes roamed over the magnificent panorama of church-crowned hills and verdant valleys, with the white city in front and the picturesque quays looking as though they had been specially decked for a painting by Clara Montalba. But Phyllis paid heed to none of these things. She wanted her lover to come with her, and not to fly away to smoke-covered London.
“Business!” she cried, “it is always business that men think of. Of course I know that affairs must be attended to, but now that everything is settled and we are quite happy, it is too bad of you to run away immediately.”
“But, dearest – ”
“There! Take your hand off my arm. You are not going to coax me into agreement. Just because you receive a horrid letter this morning you go and upset all the arrangements.”
“Phyllis, listen to me. I – ”
“You shan’t go. I think it is mean of you to insist upon it when I am so urgent.”
“I am not insisting. You might at least help me to settle matters; otherwise they will get terribly mixed.”
“And you will stay?”
“What else can I do when you ask me?”
“Oh, you darling!”
This little quarrel was very delightful, and made them feel ever so much more in love than before; but it did not help Mensmore out of his difficulty.
“Let us see what Corbett really says,” he remarked, ruefully taking a letter from his pocket.
“Am I to look, too?”
“Of course. I have no secrets from you, little woman.”
Phyllis nestled up close to him. This time she did not object to his hand resting on her shoulder, and together they read the following letter:
“My Dear Bertie, – At last I am able to write you definitely. The prospectors have struck it rich on our property, and I have sold two claims outright for $50,000. With this nest-egg I am taking the girls to New York, and shall then start by the Teutonic for your side of the pond. I am due in Liverpool on February 4, so look out for me.
“Yours ever,”Sydney H. Corbett.”
Both gazed thoughtfully at the document for a few moments before Phyllis said:
“Does that mean we shall be rich, Bertie?”
Her companion emphasized the gratification of the plural pronoun by a squeeze.
“I hope so, sweet.”
“That will be very nice, won’t it? I will marry you even if you have to take a place in father’s office; but it will be so much better if we haven’t to explain to him that we are poor after all.”
Mensmore laughed. “It is not so bad as that in any case,” he said. “This Springbok Mine speculation will probably turn out well, but I look to Wyoming to yield the best and most permanent results.”
“Why is Mr. Corbett coming to London?”
“Because it is only in London that capital can be obtained for large undertakings, and if the Wyoming Goldfield is really a valuable one we may be able to realize some portion of our interests for a considerable sum. Anyhow, he wants to consult me.”
“Do you both own the ranch?”
“Yes; it was a joint transaction, but I found the money.”
“And why did you come away?”
“Well, we made very little out of it, Phil. As Corbett has two sisters, I thought it best to leave what there was for him. He was absurdly grateful about what he called my generosity in the matter, but now that the land has proved valuable, of course all that nonsense is at an end, and we go half-shares in the deal.”
“Two sisters! They pretty?”
“What! Jealous already! They are very nice, but much older than their brother, and he is my senior by two years.”
Miss Browne was graciously pleased to accept this explanation. She knitted her smooth brow into a reflective frown as she said:
“Mr. Corbett arrives on the 4th. It is now January 30th. You really ought to go home, Bertie.”
“Now my dear, sensible little woman is talking like her own self.”
“I see I must give you permission. But I did hope we would see Florence together.”
“So we shall. I’ll tell you what I can do. I shall write to Corbett to-day, care of the steamer at Liverpool, tell him to go to my flat, and stay there a few days until I arrive, and go home myself at the end of next week. He is sure to spend some time seeing the sights before tackling business, and he can do that as well without me as if I were there. A line to my old housekeeper, who has a spare key, will make the place habitable for him. Happy thought, I’ll do it.”
“And another happy thought! I’ll come and watch you do it.”
She did not notice that Mensmore’s face clouded at this otherwise pleasant intimation. Nevertheless, he raced off with her to the saloon and seated himself at the writing-table. But before he placed pen to paper, Phyllis bending over him meanwhile, he suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of annoyance:
“Now, what a bore this is. I don’t know how to address the letter to make sure of reaching him at once, and it is very important that it should not miss him.”
“Father will know. Let us ask him.”
“No,” said Mensmore judicially, “I will row across the harbor to the Florio-Rubattino office, find out the exact thing, and send off the letter. Back in half-an-hour. Be good!”
And before Phyllis could argue the matter he was at the gangway shouting for a boat.
She blew a kiss to him as he shot over the narrow strip of water inside the mole, and little realized that Mensmore was saying to himself:
“That was a narrow squeak. Never again, as long as I live, will I take another man’s name. It causes no end of bother, and at the most unexpected moments.”
He did not trouble the Florio-Rubattino people, as he well knew that a letter addressed to the White Star offices would insure any communication reaching his friend.
The context of the missive, as finally indited at the post-office, explains his hesitancy to write it in the presence of his fiancée.
“My dear Sydney, – Your good news is more than surprising. Although I believe you, I cannot yet grasp its full significance. However, let us leave explanations until we meet. I am fixed here for a few days more, as I have just become engaged to the sweetest girl in the world, but will return home at the end of next week. Meanwhile I want you to take up your residence at my flat, No. 12 Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square, where my housekeeper has instructions to receive you. Do not be surprised if you find the name of Corbett familiar there. Indeed, I took the place in your name in August last. However, all explanations when we meet.
“Yours ever,“Bertie Mensmore.”
This, with a note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robinson, and another to the hall-porter of the Universities Club, lest by any chance the Liverpool letter missed his friend, completed his task.
He laughed as he hurried from the post-office to the harbor.
“By Jove!” he said to himself, “won’t old Robinson be surprised when she gets my letter telling her that another Mr. Corbett is coming from America, and that my name, concealed for family reasons, is Mensmore. I guess that Sydney will feel a bit mixed up, too, until I tell him the whole yarn.”
No wonder his housekeeper would fail to understand him.
Others, whose influence on his fortunes he little suspected, were already puzzled by the circumstances. Bruce, for instance, and White would be very glad if some occult power enabled them to read the seemingly trivial letters posted that day in Genoa.
Every person known to the reader, and not the least the visitor from the United States, was on the eve of a mad whirl of events, the outcome of which no man could prophesy. As yet, one man only, Claude Bruce, had the slightest suspicion that affairs were approaching a crisis.
When Mensmore reached the White Heather he found Lady Browne and Phyllis dressed for a drive before dinner. Sir William seized the opportunity to cross-examine his daughter’s suitor as to his means. Phyllis was an only child, and her father did not propose that she should live in penury, whatever the financial position of her husband might be. He liked Mensmore, and had ascertained by private inquiries that his social position was good.
“His father was a Major-General,” said his informant, “who lost his savings by speculation, and was unable to maintain his son in a crack cavalry corps, so the youngster resigned and went to America to try to better himself. There was a daughter, too, by the first wife, a very charming woman, who, when the crash came, was supposed to have gone on the stage. But I have never heard of her since.”
So far, the credentials were not bad; but Sir William thought it his duty to ascertain definite particulars.
Mensmore was quite candid with him.
“I have been somewhat of a rolling stone,” he said, “but I am glad to believe that people have never had cause to think ill of me. At times, my affairs have been at a desperate stage, but I hope such periods have passed forever. I have already spoken to you about the Springbok Mine – ”
The old gentleman nodded.
“Well, this morning I have received very satisfactory news from America,” and he handed over Corbett’s letter for perusal.
“Yes,” agreed Sir William, “these things promise well. We will look into them when we reach England. Meanwhile, I give my provisional sanction to my daughter’s engagement. She is a good girl, Mensmore. She will be a true and excellent wife. I think you are worthy of her, and I hope that whatever clouds may have darkened your life will now pass away. You two ought to be happy.”
“We will, sir,” said Mensmore fervently.
“By the way, where is your sister? Is she in England or abroad?”
Mensmore had been expecting this question. He was prepared for it.
“Mrs. Hillmer is my half-sister,” he explained. “I have not seen much of her since – since an unhappy marriage she contracted some years ago.”
“Indeed. Is her husband alive?”
“I can hardly tell you. I believe so. But she does not live with him. She is well provided for, but it was partly on account of this matter that I came to the Riviera for the winter. To tell the truth, I quarrelled with her about it.”
“Ah, well. Her troubles need not affect Phyllis and you, except to give you warning. And take my advice. Never interfere between husband and wife. However good your motive, ill is sure to come of it.”
In the growing dusk Sir William Browne did not note his companion’s embarrassment in discussing this topic. Mensmore was essentially an honorable man, and he detested the necessity which forced him to permit false inferences to be drawn from his words. Yet there was no help for it. He was compelled to suffer for the faults of another.
It was relief when the dressing-bell for dinner allowed him to escape to his cabin.