"That's what he has done, I regret to say. And I take it that he means to tell her to-night."
Mina sank into a chair. "What will she do?" she murmured. "What will she do?"
"There was a mistake—or rather a fraud—about the date of Sir Randolph Edge's death; his brother knew it. I'll tell you the details if you like. But that's the end and the sum of it. As to why he didn't tell—er—his wife sooner, perhaps you know better than I."
"Yes, I know that," she said. And then—it was most inconsiderate, most painful to Mr Neeld—she began to cry. Unable to bear this climax of excitement coming on the top of her two days' emotion, she sobbed hysterically. "They'll be here at seven!" she moaned. "What will happen? Oh, Mr Neeld! And I know he'll expect me to be calm and—and to carry it off—and be composed. How can I be?"
"Perhaps a glass of sherry——?" was Mr Neeld's not unreasonable suggestion.
No, the old brown would not serve here. But without its aid a sudden change came over Mina. She
sprang to her feet and left the tears to roll down her cheeks untended as she cried,
"What a splendid thing to do! Oh, how like Harry! And it's to be settled to-night! What can we do to make it go right?"
"I intend to take no responsibility at all," protested Neeld. "I'm here to speak to the facts if I'm wanted, but——"
"Oh, bother the facts! What are we to do to make her take it properly?" She gave another sob. "Oh, I'm an idiot!" she cried. "Haven't you anything to suggest, Mr Neeld?"