“I hadn’t the courage to face her after what had happened, sir.”
“That was your only reason?”
“That was my only reason.”
The man bent his head in an attitude of humility, and Jack Wingfield, who had spent six years of his life mingling with all sorts of men that go to make up a world, and who had acquired a good working knowledge of men of all sorts, looked at the man standing before him with bent head, and said:
“You lie, sir; you went straight off to another woman.”
The man gave a start, and his humility vanished. His eyes revealed unsuspected depths of shiftiness as he looked furtively from Jack to Priscilla and back again to Jack.
“What do you know about it? Has Lyman been writing to you?”
“Never mind who has been writing to me: the fact remains the same, and I think we have you in a tight place there, Mr. Blaydon,” said Jack, smiling at the result of his drawing a bow at a venture.
“Look here,” cried the visitor. “I know just how I stand. I know what my rights are—restitution of conjugal rights. I’ve been to the right quarter to learn all that, and what’s more, I won’t stand any further nonsense. What right have you to cross-question me—you? It is you who have ruined the girl, not me.”
“Mr. Blaydon,” said Jack quietly, “you are a man of the world, and so am I. You have said enough to show me that you are no fool. Now, speaking as man to man, and without wishing to dispute the legality of your claim or to throw away good money among bad lawyers, how much will you take in hard cash to clear off from here and let things be as they are?”