'Quarrel! Why should we have quarrelled? What had I to do with her?'
'Nothing about Redgrave?' asked Dymes, pushing his head forward and speaking confidentially.
'What do you mean?'
'No harm, I assure you—all the other way. I know Mrs. Strangeways, and I've had a good deal of talk with her lately, and I couldn't help suspecting you had a reason of your own for getting clear of her. Let me tell you, first of all, that she's left her house in Porchester Terrace. My belief is that she and her husband haven't a five-pound note between them. And the queer thing is, that this has come about since Redgrave's death.'
He paused to give his words their full significance. Alma, no longer disguising her interest, faced him with searching eyes.
'She's a bad un,' pursued the musician, 'and I shouldn't care to tell all I think about her life for the last few years. I've seen a good deal of life myself, you know, and I don't pretend to be squeamish; but I draw a line for women. Mrs. Strangeways goes a good bit beyond it, as I know for certain.'
'What is it to me?' said Alma, with tremulous impatience.
'Why, this much. She is doing her best to harm you, and in a devilish artful way. She tries to make me believe—and it's certain she says the same to others—that what happened at Wimbledon was the result of a plot between you and Redgrave's housekeeper!'
Alma stared at him, her parted lips quivering with an abortive laugh.
'Do you understand? She says that you were furiously jealous of Mrs Carnaby, and didn't care what you did to ruin her; that you put Redgrave's housekeeper up to telling Carnaby lies about his wife.'