And that was how it came that Mr. Wingfield was waited on by a well-dressed and very polite literary gentleman that same day, and invited to make any statement which he would have no objection to read in print the next morning on the subject of the return of the heroic Marcus Blaydon.
“The man told you, I suppose, that his trying mission to England was to claim the lady from whom he was parted at the church door after their marriage, and whom I married a short time ago,” said Mr. Wingfield, M.P.
“That is the substance of the statement which he made to me yesterday, sir,” said his visitor. “I hesitated to transmit it to my agency at London, not wishing, on the authority of a man of his antecedents, even though endorsed by Mr. Wadhurst, to publish a single line that might possibly—possibly——”
“Be made the subject of a libel action—is that what is on your mind?” said Mr. Wingfield.
“Of course—but in the back of my mind, Mr. Wingfield,” replied the other. “What I was really anxious to avoid was saying anything calculated to give pain to——”
“I appreciate your consideration,” said Jack pleasantly; “but I know that omelettes cannot be made without breaking eggs.”
“Yes, sir; but I should like to avoid a bad egg.”
“Then you would do well to avoid Marcus Blaydon.”
The gentleman laughed, and shook his head.
“A bad egg, beyond doubt, Mr. Wingfield; but good enough for some culinary operations,” said the skilful paragraphist. “It is true, then, that he was really married to the lady whom you subsequently—” Jack saw the word “espoused” trembling on his lips, and he hastened to save him from the remorse which he would be certain to feel when he should awaken at nights, and remember that he had employed that word solely to save his repeating the word “married.”