"Why, sir, he pretended to marry her."
"Benny did?"
"Yes, sir."
"He pretended that she was his wife."
"No, sir, he pretended to marry her to Mr. Monty."
"Good God!" the old man muttered and sank back. The blackness was blacker than any black he had entered. In days gone by, he had agreeably shocked New York with the splendid uproar of his orgies. He had left undone those things which he ought to have done and done those things which he should have avoided. He had been whatever you like—or dislike—but never had he been dishonest. Little that would avail him now. If this turpitude were published, it would be said that he had fathered it. At the prospect, he felt the incubus returning. In a moment it would have him and, spillingly, he drank the green drug.
The agony receded, but the nightmare confronted him. He grappled with it.
"The coat I had on at dinner. There is a card-case in the pocket. Give it to me."
Probably it was all very useless. Probably no matter what he contrived, the police would ferret her out. There was just one chance though which, properly taken, might save the situation.
The card-case, pale damask, lined with pale silk, the man brought him. He put it on the table.