"You old mutton-head," he said. "Your wife didn't write that letter. I know all about it, and I got it back from the Count."
"You did?" questioned Harbinger with animation. "Then why did Letty say she wrote it?"
"She wanted to shield somebody else. Now that's all I shall tell you. See here, are you coming the Othello dodge?"
Tom gave a vicious whack at a big lump which split into a dozen pieces, all of which guzzled and sputtered after the unpleasant fashion of soft coal.
"There's something here I don't understand," he persisted.
Jack regarded him curiously a moment. Then he lighted a fresh cigarette, and lay back in his chair, stretching out his legs luxuriously.
"It's really too bad that your wife's gone back on you," he observed dispassionately.
"What?" cried Tom, turning violently.
"Such a nice little woman as Letty always was too," went on Jack mercilessly. "I wouldn't have believed it."
"What in the deuce do you mean?" Tom demanded furiously, grasping the poker as if he were about to strike with it. "Do you dare to insinuate—"