“Monsignor Culham, sir,” announced a servant, throwing open the library door.
The Squire advanced with outstretched hand. “Ah, my dear old friend, I never was more glad to see you in my life.”
“And how are you, Grantley? Upon my word, in spite of whatever it is that’s bothering you, you are looking younger than ever.”
“That’ll soon remedy itself, unless we can devise some way out of this abominable tangle.”
“Supposing, now, you let me in behind this same abominable tangle—for, of course, I have as yet no idea as to its nature.”
A week had gone by since the visit of the African adventurer, but nothing further had been heard of or from that worthy. Clearly he was not going to hurry his victim unduly, but that he had given up his predatory scheme the said victim could not bring himself to believe.
In a matter involving weighty issues even the most shrewd and secretive of us may be excused for doubting his own judgment, or, at any rate, desiring to take counsel of another mind. Thus the situation, as laid down by the would-be blackmailer, had got upon even the cool nerves of the old diplomat; and upon whose judgment could he rely as he could upon that of his old friend?
“But you are only just off a journey,” he now replied. “You must rest and refresh first.”
“Neither, thanks; and the journey wasn’t a long one. Now, begin.”
“It’s a tale soon told. My first wife—Wagram’s mother—was married before. She honestly believed her husband to be dead; in fact, if certificates and all that sort of thing count as proof, she was justified in believing it. Afterwards he turned up, and tried blackmailing us.”