Just what his wife had said. Sir Francis felt his apprehensions deepening; but he made no reply. Perhaps he could not.
“Well, he is more attractively employed, at any rate—for the time being,” emphasised Fordham. “In proof whereof—look at this.”
He produced a telegram from his pocket; deliberately unfolded it, then handed it to the other. Sir Francis’ face grew deathly white as he read it, and he gave a sort of gasp. He could only stare at the paper, then at Fordham, then at the paper again.
Thus ran the latter:—
“Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap. Phil.”
“Is this a practical joke of yours?” gasped the baronet at length, as soon as he could find words.
“By no means. It is just as I received it. Look at the date of the office stamp—the 22nd. It was yesterday the affair came off. I only returned this morning from a few days’ absence, and found the wire awaiting me in my quarters. Yet it is news to you. Very inconsiderate on Phil’s part, I must say. He might have let you know.”
“Who—what—are these people—these Daventers?”
“Well, the young lady is his social equal, at all events, as you will probably be the first to admit,” answered Fordham, the cruel sneer deepening on his countenance. All the satanic ruthlessness of his implacable rancour had returned. He was pouring out the very life blood of his enemy now. All thoughts of pity, of compunction, had passed away.
“On her mother’s side the girl is undoubtedly his social equal,” he continued. “On that of her father—well, you must be the best judge.”