“My wife does not care to be interviewed,” he said shortly, handing back his card to “Mr. Wiley.” “We are at a loss to understand why she should be singled out for the favour.”
“It's about her contract at the Columbine,” the journalist said chattily, “but you might do as well. The D.P. wants to know what has become of Miss Leslie and——”
“Come upstairs.” Captain Anstruther spoke with more haste than hospitality. “I don't know how you got on to the fact that my wife was Miss Leslie. . . .”
“Recognised her.”
“Well, you tell your paper that she's retired into private life. Look here, it's worth our while to make it worth your while to mention no names. See?”
“I do. But our paper thinks she married a Mr. Black, of Richmond,—or no, another place on the river——”
Captain Anstruther looked still more vexed.
“Of all the damned spying!—I'm a nephew of those Blacks as a matter of fact. Look here, keep all names out of the papers”—he squeezed a note into the journalist's hand, who returned it promptly.
“I should get the sack if I tried that game. I can keep all names out—possibly—without palm-oil. It's her broken contract anyway that our paper's keen on. Why wasn't she sued? And why no announcement of the wedding?”
Captain Anstruther bit his lip.