"The old Thorpe house. I don't know what's got into the girl, Brady. First she swears she won't live in the house, and then she turns around,—just like that,—and moves in. Workmen all over the place, working overtime and all that sort of thing,—with Anne standing around punchin' 'em with a sharp stick if they don't keep right on the job. Top to bottom,—renovated, redecorated, brightened up,—wouldn't recognise the place as—"
"Is she living there—alone?"
"Yes. New lot of servants and—By the way, old Wade has—what do you think he has done?"
"How long has she been living down there?" demanded the other, impatiently. His eyes were gleaming.
"Well, old Wade has gone and got married," went on Simmy, deliberately ignoring the eager question. "Married a girl of twenty or something like that. Chucked his job, bloomed out as a dandy,—spats and chamois gloves and silk hats,—cleared out three weeks ago for a honeymoon,—rather pretty girl, by the way,—"
Braden's attention had been caught at last and held. "Wade married? Good Lord! Oh, I say, Simmy, you can't expect me to believe—"
"You'll see. He has shaken the dust of Thorpe house from his person and is gallivanting around in lavender perfumes and purple linen."
"My God! That old hulk and—twenty years, did you say? Why, the damned old scoundrel! After all he has seen and—" His jaws closed suddenly with a snap, and his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.
"Be careful, Brady, old top," said Simmy, shaking his head. "It won't do to call Wade names, you know. Just stop and think for a second or two."
Thorpe relaxed with a gesture of despair. "You are right, Simmy. Why should I blame Wade?"