“Sit down,” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “And please begin at the beginning. I’ve another appointment in——”
“Now, don’t rush me,” said Giles. “I’m all of a doohah, I am. And if you rush me, I shall burst into tears.” He mopped his brow feverishly. “About six weeks ago . . .”
The tale came pelting.
The lawyer, who had given a frenzied Katharine an appointment for half-past ten, began to see daylight.
“And there you are,” concluded Giles violently. “That letter means she’s attracted to Pat Lafone. I’ll bet it cost her a hell of a lot to write it, because—well, it’s a pretty thick thing to tell your husband, isn’t it? And now she’s had my letter, which tells her in so many words to count me out and go full blast ahead.”
Forsyth fingered his chin.
“What did you write it for?”
“Ask the fowls of the air,” said Giles wearily. “They might be able to tell you. I can’t. I suppose I had some rotten, weak-kneed idea of frightening her back into my arms. Of course, it was a hopeless thing to do. But when you’re desperate you do do hopeless things.”
“Why ‘desperate’?” said Forsyth.
“Because I can’t stand it,” shouted his client. “I’m not a graven image. For nearly three blinkin’ months I’ve stood and watched all London swarming about my wife: I’ve smirked and bowed and scraped and pretended I didn’t care: I’ve sat up and begged, like the rest, for a dance or a smile: and once a blistering week I’ve met her across our own table and made imitation back-chat and done the grateful guest. . . . And the last three times I went there she gave me grocer’s port.” He raised his eyes to heaven and clenched his teeth. “If ever I get a chance, I’ll break that butler’s back. I believe that’s half the reason I wrote that blasted note.”