They finished their supper. Maud accepted a cigarette and did her best to change her companion’s mood. She only alluded once more to her husband.
“I don’t see how I could have stayed with him, anyhow,” she said. “You know, he’s been put back—he only gets two pounds fifteen a week now. He couldn’t expect me to live upon that.”
“Put back?” Peter Ruff repeated.
She nodded.
“He seemed to have a lot of bad luck this last year,” she said. “All his cases went wrong, and they don’t think so much of him at Scotland Yard as they did. I am not sure that he hasn’t begun to drink a little.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Peter Ruff said, gravely.
“I don’t see why you should be,” she answered, bluntly. “He was no friend of yours, nor isn’t now. He may not be so dangerous as he was, but if ever you come across him, you take my tip and be careful. He means to do you a mischief some day, if he can. I am not sure,” she added, “that he doesn’t believe that it was partly your fault about my leaving home.”
“I should be sorry for him to think that,” Peter Ruff answered. “While we are upon the subject, can’t you tell me exactly why your husband dislikes me so?”
“For one thing, because you have been up against him in several of his cases, and have always won.”
“And for the other?”