“Yes, sir, both of them!” She mimicked his tone. “You see, Mr. Shane, it’s an old romance, all ‘round. When Eunice Ames was a girl, three men fought for her hand, the two we’ve just mentioned, and Mr. Embury, who was the successful suitor. And he succeeded only by sheer force of will. He practically stole her from the other two and married her out of hand.”
“I suppose the lady agreed?”
“Of course, but it was a marriage in haste, and—I imagine that it was followed by the proverbial consequences.”
“What do you mean?” asked the dull-witted Shane.
“That they repented at leisure. At least, Eunice did—I don’t believe Sanford ever regretted.”
“But those two men are Embury’s friends.”
“Sure they are! Oh, friend Shane, were you born yesterday? I thought detectives were a little more up-to-date than that! Of course, they’re all friends, always have been, since they made mud-pies together in their Boston backyards.”
“Did you belong to that childish group?
“Me? Lord, no! I’m Simon Pure Middle West! And I glory in it! I’d hate to be of New England descent—you have to live up to traditions and things! I’m a law unto myself, when it comes to life and living!”
“And you met Mrs. Embury?”