THE MAN IN THE GOLF HUT
By Edgar Wallace
He walked down the stairs from the great man’s study, and at every two steps he came to a halt as some new aspect of the situation appeared to him. He had an absurd desire to sit down on the heavily carpeted treads and take his time over his musings, and once or twice he did lean on the sloping and massive handrail to allow himself a physical ease that his mind might work with greater smoothness.
Of course, the whole thing was madness—stark lunacy, and the greatest, least reasonable, most extravagant of all the lunacies was John Jenner’s sublime egotism. His name must be protected; his honor must be avenged; he must face the world without blush or reproach.
Bobby Mackenzie chuckled hysterically but internally.
There were seven more stairs to descend before he came to the broad landing from whence one reached the drawing-room and Leslie Jenner.
“Phew!” said Bobby, drew a handkerchief from his sleeve, and wiped his brow.
He went down two steps and lingered… down three more and halted, drumming the handrail with nervous fingers… then boldly took the last two together, strode across the landing, laid a resolute hand upon the doorknob, and found his knees shaking.
And yet he was a sturdy young man, good and healthy looking, practised in the ways of social intercourse and one who was not unused to meeting difficult situations. Once, in a shattered trench fronting the Hindenburg line, he had pushed nerve-shattered men into action with a ribald jest which had become an army classic. At this moment he did not feel humorous.
He turned the knob with an effort of will which would have nerved a condemned man to put the rope about his own neck.
A girl was standing against the fireplace, her back to him. She did not look round even when he banged the door. He saw her shoulders shake, and looked back at the door.
“Miss Jenner,” he said huskily, “don’t… don’t…!”
She turned, and he gasped.
“You were… laughing?” he asked incredulously.
“Of course I was laughing,” she scoffed. “Isn’t it laughable—father’s absurd scheme?”
He nodded very slowly. He was very fond of Leslie Jenner. Every man was fond of her—a wisp of a girl, light-treading, lissome, quick- thinking.
“I told you some of the story before you went up to father,” she said. “I suppose he told you the rest?”
“I suppose he did,” he admitted carefully.
“He told you that I had spent the night with an unknown man in the golf hut?” she said.
He nodded again.
“I’ll tell you the rest.” She settled herself on a fender-seat and pointed to the big arm-chair opposite to her. Bobby seated himself meekly.
“I’d been to the Winslows,” she said; “they’re great pals of father’s. Old Winslow is one of the two gods of finance whom father worships; father is the other. They had a birthday party—one of their numberless children has reached twenty-one without mishap, and naturally they wanted everybody to rejoice and be exceeding glad. Daddy was going, but something colossal happened at the last minute—steel rose an eighth or lard fell a twenty-fourth or something—and naturally the world stopped revolving. I went alone—Winslows’ place is about twelve miles out of town, and you have to cross a piece of waste land that is called Smoke Park. It is a desolation and an abomination—”
“Must you be scriptural?” pleaded Bobby. “I only ask because your parent has been—”
“The Book of Job?” interrupted the girl quickly—”’He hath made me a byword to the people, and I am become an open abhorring’—I thought he might. Well, to continue this strange story. Nothing happened at the dance except that I saw you flirting outrageously with Sybil Thorbern—”
“Flirting!” groaned Bobby. “Oh lord!—well, go on.”
“Anyway, you were talking most earnestly to her—Jack Marsh pointed out that fact.”
“He would,” said Bobby. “I’m hardly likely to flirt with the wife of my best pal—but go on.”
“Coming back at a little after midnight,” she continued, “my car stopped. There was oil where gas should have been or gas where oil was due, I can’t tell you. Anyway, Anderson, that’s the chauffeur, disappeared into the interior of the bonnet and remained, uttering strangled moans from time to time, and emerging at intervals to apologize for the weather. You see, being a warm night I went in an open car, without hood or anything, and it began to rain like… like….”
“Hell,” suggested the sympathetic man in the chair.
“Yes—thank you. I was getting wet through, and I remembered that there was a shelter—a small respectable hut which had been erected for golfers—we were on the course when we finally went dead. Without saying a word to Anderson, I tripped daintily along a path and found the hut. By this time it was raining—um—well, as you said. The door of the hut was closed, but it opened readily enough and I stepped inside. I was within hailing distance of the car, but the chauffeur had not seen me go, you understand?”
The other nodded.
“No sooner was I inside when I had a horrible feeling that there was somebody else there. I went spiney and shivery and made for the door. Before I could reach it somebody caught me by the arm. He was very gentle but very firm.
“’If you shout,’ he said, in a disguised voice—I knew the voice was disguised—’I’ll knock your infernal head off!’”
“I see,” said Bobby; “he was a gentleman.”
“He wasn’t bad,” said the girl; “after that he was quite nice. He said that he hated doing this, but it was all for my good, and he hoped that I’d have the sense to see that he wouldn’t have taken the step but for circumstances over which he had no control. In fact, it struck me that he was nervous himself.”
“You couldn’t see him?”
“No—it was absolutely dark. Then I heard the chauffeur’s voice shout ‘Are you there?’ I was going to answer, but the man put his hand over my mouth. Then I heard the car drone down the road. Anderson thought I must have walked on, and went along to pick me up. I don’t know what I said to the gentleman in the hut—I think I was offensive. He didn’t seem to mind.
“’You will stay here till one-thirty,’ he said, ‘and then you can go home.’”
“The brute! You were terribly frightened I suppose?” said Bobby.
“No—the queer thing is that I wasn’t,” replied the girl. “I just recognized that this was an unusual person. I even made up stories about him.”
“Like what?” asked the interested Bobby.
“Well, perhaps he had committed a murder, an old feud, you know, and that sort of thing, and was making his escape when I came in upon him. I was puzzled about the one-thirty. Why did he want me to stay so long? Presently, however, I got a clue. There was a sound of a car coming along the road, and I saw its head-lamps appear over the rise. It was from the same direction as I had come, and stopped at identically the same spot where my car had stopped. I heard somebody get down, then I heard a whistle. And this is where the queerest part of the adventure began. My jailer literally pushed me into a corner of the hut.
“’Don’t make a sound,’ he said quite fiercely, and then he walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out. I heard somebody say, ‘Is that you?’ and then my man replied in a horrid, gruff, growling voice: ‘Nothing doing!’ The other person made no reply, but I heard his feet scuttling back to the car, and presently the car moved on, working up to a terrific pace before it disappeared.”
“What did your man do?” asked Bobby.
“He came back,” said the girl, “and he was laughing as though at the greatest joke in the world. But it was no joking matter for him, for just as I started in to ask with all the dignity that I could command that he should escort me at once to my home, along came papa’s car from the opposite direction and pulled up near the golf hut. I heard father’s loud voice cursing Anderson.
“’Of course she’s in the golf hut, you fool,’ he said. ‘Do you think a daughter of mine wouldn’t have sufficient sense to come in out of the rain? Give me one of those head-lamps.’
“He took the lamp in his hand, and then my jailer began to get agitated.
“’Is he coming here?’ he whispered. ‘Who is it?’
“’My father,’ I said very coldly.
“’Your father!’”
“There was a kind of horror in his voice that went straight to my heart,” said Leslie. “He turned to me and asked: ‘What is your name?’ I told him, and I think he nearly dropped.”
“He didn’t realize how important a prisoner he had, I suppose?” suggested Bobby.
“Don’t be sarcastic—at any rate, father was no sooner on the path leading up to the hut, when my ruffian threw open the door and bolted like a hare. I saw father’s lamp turn in his direction, but daddy could only have caught a glimpse of his back. And then, Bobby,” said the girl solemnly, “the fat was in the fire! Of course, if I’d had a glimmer of intelligence, I should have told father the truth and stuck to my story.”
“Though it was an extremely improbable one,” said Bobby gravely, and the girl nodded.
“It was improbable, but it was true. The improbability of the yarn, however, struck me first. My imagination was too keen. I pictured just how father would stand with his hands on his hips and his legs apart, glaring down at me, and I just didn’t feel like explaining.
“’Who was that man?’ demanded father, and his voice was so deceptively mild and reasonable that I thought I had an easy escape—and I just gave the name that came into my head!”
“Which happened to be mine,” said Bobby sadly.
“Which happened to be yours,” she agreed.
“Did it strike you,” asked Bobby, “that you would have the devil of a job explaining me away—especially as I bolted? That you were spoiling my young career, blackening my fair name, and jeopardizing my prospects?”
“Not until afterwards,” she confessed ruefully. “When I got home I went to daddy and told him the whole truth, and he said I was shielding you, that by heavens I should make amends, by heavens he had half a mind to shoot you, and by heavens such a large blot had never been splashed upon the family escutcheon—of course, I knew I was wrong. I know I am wrong now. I want you to forgive me, Bobby. It is pretty hard on me you know—I’ve still to tell Jack Marsh.”
“Oh, Jack Marsh!” said the young man softly. “Is he an interested party in this business?”
She hesitated.
“In a way,” she said; “you see, there’s a sort of understanding—I’ll tell you frankly, Bobby. I’m rather fond of Jack, and I’m rather afraid of him. I’m fond of you too, but I’m not afraid of you. You see?”
“I see,” said Bobby, “and that is rather a good thing.”
There was a certain significance in his words, and she looked at him sharply.
“Oh, by the way, you haven’t told me what happened upstairs. Did father ask you to marry me?”
He nodded.
“He not only asked, he demanded.”
“Poor boy,” she smiled; “you had an awful difficulty in getting out of it, didn’t you?”
“Not at all,” said Bobby, brushing invisible crumbs from his knees, “not at all. In fact, I didn’t get out of it.”
“You didn’t—get out of it?” she asked breathlessly, staring at him.
“No,” said Bobby, “I didn’t. I just said ‘All right!’”
There was a long silence.
“What does that mean? Do you mean to say—that you accepted me?” she asked faintly.
Bobby nodded.
“There was nothing else to do,” he answered, with a dismal smile. “He insisted upon the affair taking place at once, and was frightfully keen on a quiet wedding.”
She had nothing to say, being literally speechless.
“It is extremely tough on me,” said Bobby bitterly. “I have always looked forward to a wedding with bridesmaids and crossed swords in the porch, and ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing!’ and all that sort of stuff. I was never so disappointed in my life as when he talked about a ‘quiet wedding.’”
“But—but Bobby,” she wailed, “you haven’t really—”
He nodded.
“I had to do it for the sake of your dear old family escutcheon,” he said. “I don’t know very much about your escutcheon, but if it’s anything like mine it wants electro-plating. Our family has been making mesalliances since the days of Robert Bruce.”
Suddenly she realized the horrible fact that, quite unknown to her, she was engaged.
“You mustn’t do it,” she cried vehemently. “Bobby, you must go straight to father and tell him—tell him you weren’t the man. The engagement must be broken off! I insist upon this! It is—it is awful!”
Bobby sniffed.
“Suppose you go to father and you tell him I’m not the man,” he said; “after all, you’re better authority than I am.”
“But this is tragic,” she said, pacing the room; “it is monstrous!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bobby, sitting back in his chair and putting the tips of his fingers together; “I’m not so sure that it is so bad. Mind you, you’re not the kind of girl I should have chosen.”
“Bobby, you’re insulting!”
“No, I’m not,” he said; “honest to goodness, I’m not. I have a terrifically high opinion of you, and I should never have dared in my position to have offered marriage. Your father, however, insists upon the marriage taking place immediately, insists upon giving me £100,000 worth of shares in his shipping company—”
“He is going to pay you!” she gasped. “For marrying me! Bobby!” She swallowed something, then walked quickly to the door. “I’m to see father, and I’ll tell him the whole hideous truth. I love him dearly and I would do anything to save him unhappiness, but I am not going to have my life wrecked—I’ll tell him that.”
“You might tell him something about my life being wrecked too,” called Bobby from the chair.
Probably she did not hear him, for she was out of the room and half- way up the stairs before he had finished. She came to the door of the study and no farther. Three minutes later she made a solemn re-entry to the drawing-room, closing the door behind her.
“Bobby,” she said soberly, “I dare not do it. Poor daddy! I just opened the door, and he was—” she choked.
“Yes?” said Bobby interestedly.
“He was sobbing as if his heart would break,” gulped the girl.
“I shouldn’t have thought £100,000 would have affected him like that,” said Bobby thoughtfully.
“You brute!” she flamed. “Of course, it wasn’t the money. It was me—me.” She sat down, covering her face with her hands.
“It may have been me too,” said the insistent Bobby; “after all, a nice man like your father would be awfully cut up at the thought that a life such as mine promises to be, and a career—”
“Your life and your career!” she interrupted angrily. “Oh, what a fool I’ve been, what a fool!”
Bobby did not interrupt, to agree or deny, and presently she grew calmer.
“I’ll go through with it,” she said wearily. “I could laugh if it were not so terrible.”
“I couldn’t even laugh,” said Bobby; then: “I wonder if I could persuade him—I’d have had a try if you hadn’t told me about Jack Marsh.”
She swung round at him.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Just what I say,” said Bobby coolly. “It was the mention of Jack Marsh which has sealed your young fate.”
“Bobby!”
Bobby was standing up, his back to the fire, and his lips were tight pressed.
“We’ll go through with this marriage,” he said. “Maybe it is going to be pretty rotten for both of us, but I have an idea that it’d be worse for you if I didn’t go through.”
Another long silence, then:
“When shall it be?” she asked, averting her gaze.
Bobby scratched his chin.
“What are you doing next Thursday?” he demanded.
* * * * *
Three weeks later they sat on opposite sides of a breakfast-table in a private sitting-room of the Hotel Maurice reading their several correspondence. Through the open window came the clatter and whirr of the traffic on the Rivoli and the indefinable fragrance of a spring-time which further advertised its presence in the masses of mimosa, the golden clusters of daffodils, and in the shallow bowls of violets occupying every table in the room.
The girl threw a letter across the table to her husband.
“You’d better read this,” she said; “it is from Jack Marsh.”
He took up the letter and read it from beginning to end, so slowly that she grew impatient.
“Oh, do hurry,” she complained; “there’s nothing in it. I think Jack is being very nice about the whole business.”
“Very!” he handed the letter back. “If you take my advice, you’ll write to him, and having thanked him like a little lady, tell him that under the circumstances it is inadvisable that you should meet again.”
She could only stare at him.
“What on earth do you mean?” she demanded.
“You can add,” he went on, “that your husband objects to the continuation of the acquaintanceship.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the girl, the color coming to her face, her eyes shining dangerously.
“It is my wish,” said the lofty Bobby. “Forgive me if I pull out the autocratic stop, but I have asked precious little of you since we have been married, and it is not my intention to make any other demands upon you. This, however, I insist upon. After we have been married a few years I will allow you to divorce me, and you can take as your portion those beautiful shipping shares which your dear father bestowed upon me as a wedding gift. But, in the meantime, you will do as I wish. Jack Marsh is an undesirable acquaintance.”
“From your point of view,” she scoffed.
“From your point of view too, only you haven’t the—only you don’t know it,” he said.
She checked an inclination to throw a fish-knife at his head, and sat back, her hands folded on her lap.
“I shall take not the slightest notice of anything you say,” she said; “my friends are my friends, and they will continue to be such. Perhaps you would like to see my other letters? I had half a dozen from feminine relatives, congratulating me upon my marriage and envying me my happiness. Do you mind if I laugh?”
“Why not?” said the imperturbable Bobby. “I can show you letters that I’ve had from maiden aunts, infinitely more comic. I could show you, I’ve got it here somewhere,” he searched among the pile of letters at his elbow, “an epistle from Uncle Angus, reminding me that the first-born of the Mackenzies is invariably called—”
She rose from the table.
“If you’re going to be horrid, I will not stay,” she said; “that sort of humor doesn’t amuse me.”
They came back to London a week later to all appearances a happily married couple, and London relieved them both of a particular strain, for here each had friends and peculiar interests which neither shared with the other. The marriage was the most unreal experience which had come either to Bobby or to the girl.
Bobby described the ceremony as being rather like a joint application for a dog license, and said that it left him with the same emotions that would have been aroused by an appearance before an Income Tax commissioner. The “honeymoon” had bored them both, save for the odd intervals when they found a common pleasure amongst the treasures of the Louvre.
London and its gaiety spelt relief.
A few nights after their return, Mrs. Vandersluis-Carter gave a dinner and dance. Neither Leslie nor Bobby were invited to the dinner, but both went on to the ball. About midnight Bobby, wandering about in search of his wife, found her sitting in an alcove head to head with Jack Marsh. Marsh was doing the talking, and by his doleful appearance Bobby gathered that he was telling the girl the sad story of his life.
She looked up and saw something in Bobby’s face which she didn’t like, and took a hasty farewell of her former fiancé.
“Will you go along, Leslie?” said Bobby. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. I want to speak to Marsh for a while.”
“Let us go together,” she said nervously.
“If you please,” said Bobby, and his voice was firm, “will you go and wait for me?”
Marsh was on his feet too, sensing trouble. Leslie still hesitated, and the matter might have passed off quietly only Marsh felt it incumbent upon him to say a few words.
“Leslie was just telling me,” he said, with all the geniality at his command, “that—”
“My wife’s name is Mrs. Mackenzie,” said Bobby. “You can forget that she was ever called Leslie by you.”
“Bobby, Bobby!” whispered his wife in terror of a scene.
“And I would add this,” said Bobby, taking no notice of her, “that the next time I catch you speaking with her I will take you by the scruff of the neck and I will kick you into Kingdom Come. Does that appeal to you?”
Marsh was white with rage.
“You’re a pretty good talker, Mackenzie,” he said; “you ought to be in Parliament.”
Bobby’s answer was appallingly unexpected. Without drawing back, his fist shot out and Mr. Marsh went to the floor.
“I’m not going to explain anything to you,” said Bobby to his agonized wife that night. “I’m only telling you that you must not meet Marsh or there will be trouble. In a few years’ time, I promise you, you can divorce me—just as soon as it is decent. In the meantime, if you want to avoid this kind of unpleasantness, you must also avoid J. Marsh.” It was unfortunate that Bobby’s assault had been witnessed by the one person beside Marsh who hated him.
Sybil Thorbern had reason enough by her own code. Into the sympathetic ears of her husband she poured the story of Bobby’s infamy. He, poor, good man, listened uncomfortably because he was Bobby’s oldest friend.
“The man is a savage,” she said, “absolutely undisciplined.”
“Bobby isn’t bad,” protested her husband feebly. He was a ruddy man, twenty years his wife’s senior, an out-of-doors man with a detestation of any crisis which involved mental effort. “Bobby is a little wild, Sybil, but if he hit Marsh, you can be sure that Marsh deserved it.”
Whereupon, stung to indiscretion, Mrs. Thorbern blurted venom. She was a pretty woman and had many admirers. Her husband took almost a pride in the fact, but the kind of admiration which Bobby Mackenzie had expressed to his wife (as she told the story) left a cloud on his brow.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“The night of the Winslows’ ball, a few days before this fellow married Leslie Jenner.”
“I can hardly believe it,” he said, in a troubled voice, “and yet—” he remembered certain circumstances, a packed valise lying in the hall, the discovery of his wife in traveling clothes ready to go out after midnight, and the lame excuse she made.
“I was mad,” she excused herself; “every woman has that spasm of madness, however much she loves her husband, and for a moment he carried me off my feet. And then I realized how sweet you were and how good and … Douglas, I hadn’t the heart…!”
She was weeping now passionately, but her hysteria was due more to fright than to contrition. For she had said too much, made her accusations too direct, and even in the exalted moment of her vengeance was panic- stricken at the possible consequences of her “confession.”
“Douglas, you won’t say any more about it, will you?” she pleaded. “I oughtn’t to have told you.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said. “I remember—” he said slowly, “some bruises on your arm that night—did he do that?”
She nodded.
“Yes, yes, but you won’t go any farther with this matter, will you, Douglas? Please, please, dear, for my sake!”
“I’ll think about it,” said Douglas Thorbern unsteadily, and went up to his room.
The next morning there was a meeting between two distressed women. Bobby was out when Mrs. Thorbern called at the hotel where the young people were staying, and Leslie, who knew her well enough and disliked her instinctively, received the wife of Bobby’s best friend.
“Leslie, I want you to help me,” she blurted. “I’m in an awful fix. I was very annoyed with Bobby, and I told my husband something about him and I’m afraid, I’m afraid…!”
“What did you tell your husband about Bobby?” demanded Leslie coldly.
The fact that she had parted from Bobby that morning in a spirit of the bitterest hostility did not lessen her feeling of antagonism toward Mrs. Thorbern. The woman hesitated.
“I—I told him that Bobby wanted to run away with me.”
Leslie sat down suddenly.
“Bobby wanted to run away with you?” she repeated incredulously.
The other nodded.
“When did this happen?”
“On the night of the Winslows’ ball, you remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” said Leslie grimly; “I have a very good reason for remembering. So Bobby wanted to run away with you, did he?”
Again Mrs. Thorbern hesitated.
“I told my husband so, but—”
“Did you tell him the truth,” asked Leslie, “or were you just lying?”
“I—well, there was some trouble with Bobby and me….”
“Were you speaking the truth or a lie?” asked Leslie again, and her voice was steady. “Personally, I know you were lying, because Bobby would not do so mean a thing.”
“Naturally you would defend your husband,” bridled Mrs. Thorbern.
“Naturally,” said the girl calmly.
“He’s a beast!” Mrs. Thorbern burst forth tearfully. “He has ruined my life!”
Her sincerity was unmistakable, and Leslie felt a little pang at her heart, but there was in her composition some of her father’s shrewdness, his dogged insistence.
“Did Bobby ask you to run away with him?” She returned to the question and knew that her own future happiness was at stake, for she had dreamed of a future which did not exclude from her life the man who met her at meals and talked solemn nonsense about matrimony.
“Yes!” cried Mrs. Thorbern at last, and Leslie smiled.
“That, my dear girl, is a naughty, wicked lie!” she said. “Bobby never wanted you to run away with him—in fact, I’m going to ask him to tell me the story, because I am sure you are concealing something.”
“All I want you to do is to warn Bobby to keep out of my husband’s way.” Mrs. Thorbern’s voice held a menace. “You’re horribly unsympathetic, Leslie; I did hope I should find a friend in you.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked the girl; “agree with you that Bobby is a blackguard? I rather think that I know him better than you.”
“I’m glad you have that illusion,” said Mrs. Thorbern icily. “Your understanding of him was violently sudden; there was something rather mysterious about your marriage.”
“Mysterious?” drawled the girl; “but aren’t all marriages a little mysterious?”
Mrs. Thorbern shrugged her shoulders and was on her way to the door when Leslie stopped her with a cry. The older woman looked round and saw a light burning in the girl’s eyes.
“Wait, wait,” said Leslie excitedly, “this story about Bobby—this story you told your husband—when did you arrange to run away with him?” and then, as the other hesitated, she corrected, “when did you tell your husband that Bobby wanted to run away with you?”
“On the night of the Winslows’ ball.”
“And did your husband—have any idea that you were going to run away—with anybody?”
“He knew nothing,” said Mrs. Thorbern, “he—oh, what is the good of telling you?”
“Oh please, please tell me,” begged Leslie. “I am really anxious to know.”
“Douglas found me dressed ready to go,” said Mrs. Thorbern slowly, “and he—he—discovered my dressing-bag in the hall. I didn’t expect him back that night. He had gone to Edinburgh on some business.”
“And you were meeting—Bobby—somewhere near the Winslows?”
Again the hesitation.
“Yes, I was meeting him—him—”
“At any time?” asked the girl breathlessly, and Mrs. Thorbern looked at her with suspicion.
“I told my husband,” she was careful to say, “that I was meeting Bobby between twelve and half-past one.”
“I know,” Leslie almost whispered the words; “you were meeting him at the golf hut in Smoke Park!”
It was Mrs. Thorbern’s turn to show astonishment and uneasiness.
“You were meeting him at the golf hut before half-past one—and it wasn’t Bobby you were meeting at all!”
“How do you know?” asked the woman harshly.
“It was Marsh—Jack Marsh—and Bobby knew you were going to run away, and he stopped you—that’s what you mean when you say he wrecked your life!”
Mrs. Thorbern’s breath was labored.
“Bobby is a sneak,” she cried. “He listened, he listened! I’d have gone with Jack then, but he caught me by the arm—your charming Bobby—I had the bruise marks for days!”
“And he was waiting in the hut for you,” said the girl slowly.
“Jack?”
Mrs. Thorbern looked at her open-mouthed, but the girl shook her head.
“No, Bobby,” she said softly, “the splendid darling! It was he who was in the hut all the time waiting for you to keep your appointment and determined to save your husband’s name. And that’s why he wouldn’t tell me—because it meant giving you away.”
“How do you know he was there?” asked the woman.
“Because I was there too,” said Leslie proudly.
Bobby came down to dinner that night, glum of face, and found his wife waiting for him in the hall.
“I’m in all sorts of trouble,” he said. “I’ve had a perfectly rotten letter from an old pal of mine.”
“He’ll write you an apology in the morning,” said the girl cheerfully.
He stared at her.
“How do you know? Are you going in for clairvoyance or something?”
“He’ll write you an apology, because I told his wife she had to tell him the truth.”
Bobby stopped dead.
“Look here, young person,” he said, “what is the mystery?”
She smiled up in his face.
“Don’t make a scene in public, Bobby,” she said, “and do take that gloomy look off your face. I want to start off on my second honeymoon without a sad thought.”
He stood gaping down at her.
“When do we start?” he asked hollowly.
“We’ll go by the boat train that leaves Victoria at nine o’clock in the morning,” she said.
He looked at his watch.
“What about the train that goes to Bournemouth tonight?” said he.