"No; he has no money," she answered simply. "It's much worse than that. It's—it's about a lady."
He gave a long whistle. "By golly! Is it, though? Then I'll bet it's that over-ripe woman who sat next him at dinner—the painter's wife."
"Yes, it is. They have fallen in love with each other."
The young man threw his cigarette in the fire in his excitement.
"No! They can't have. Why, bless me, he's an old man—I beg your pardon. But he isn't young, is he?"
"That doesn't matter. He's fallen in love with her and Mr. Crichell's found out."
"My hat! The man with the nasty fingers."
"Yes. And they're all after me—not a soul stands up for me, Oliver. So that's why I sent for you. I thought perhaps you would."
"Of course I will. You want someone to see you through divorcing him. Well, I'm your boy. Have you got a solicitor? And—excuse me speaking so plainly—have you got proofs?"
She laughed forlornly at his mistake. "Oh, my dear, you've got it all wrong. It's the other way about. It's they that want me to divorce him and I—I won't."