"I'm sure I never do, Freddy, dear. It's Hubert's money which has gone to his mother."
Garvington jumped up. "Who—who—who is his mother?" he demanded, furiously.
"That dear old Gentilla Stanley."
"What! What! What!"
"Oh, Freddy," said his wife plaintively. "You make my head ache. Yes, it's quite true. Celestine had it from William the footman. Fancy, Gentilla having all that money. How lucky she is."
"Oh, damn her; damn her," growled Garvington, breaking another glass.
"Why, dear. I'm sure she's going to make good use of the money. She says—so William told Celestine—that she would give a million to learn for certain who murdered poor Hubert."
"Would she? would she? would she?" Garvington's gooseberry eyes nearly dropped out of his head, and he babbled, and burbled, and choked, and spluttered, until his wife was quite alarmed.
"Freddy, you always eat too fast. Go and lie down, dear."
"Yes," said Garvington, rapidly making up his mind to adopt a certain course about which he wished his wife to know nothing. "I'll lie down, Jane."