"There's a fellow named Flint—" said Jack between gulps at his liquor.
Of course there was! A fellow who did not despise nosings! That bygone talk with Babba leapt lifelike to Ashley's mind.
The fellow named Flint, aided by the basest treachery on the part of Miss Macpherson—why had she not denied all compromising facts?—had landed Mr. Fenning in his present predicament.
"What in the world is it you mean?" groaned Ashley.
"They've begun divorce proceedings," said Jack, with a desperate pull at the broken-backed leaky cigar. "My own wife, Mr. Mead."
"Upon my soul, you're a much-wronged man," said Ashley.
In the next few moments he came near to repenting his sarcastic words. Repentance would indeed have been absurd; but if every one were kicking the creature it was hard and needless to add another kick. He found some sorrow and disapprobation for the conduct of Miss Daisy Macpherson; it was ungrateful in her who had liked to be known as Mrs. Foster in private life.
"Babba Flint got round your friend, did he?" he asked. "Well, I suppose you've no defence?"
"I've got no money, Mr. Mead."
"That's the same thing, you know," said Ashley. "Well, what's the matter? How does it hurt you to be divorced?"