“Dick Millet,” he exclaimed, “you called me a fool a little while ago. I won’t call you so, only ask you whether you don’t think you are one.”
“I dare say I am,” said Dick sharply. “But look here, are you prepared to prove all this about John Huish?”
“Every bit of it, and ten times as much,” said Morrison. “Why, this scoundrel won or cheated me of the money that paid for his wedding trip. He was with me till the last instant. Yes, and, as well as I can recollect, after he had got your sister away.”
Dick’s cigar went out, and his forehead began to pucker up.
“Look here,” he said: “you told me that he sent you the note that made you go home that night. Where were you?”
“At a supper with some actresses.”
“But John Huish was not there!”
“Not there. Why, he was present with the lady who was his companion up to the time that he honoured your sister with his name. I believe he visits her now.”
“I can’t stand this,” cried Dick, throwing away his cigar. “How a fellow who calls himself a man can play double in this way gets over me. Frank Morrison, if I did as much I should feel as if I had ‘liar’ written on my face, ready for my wife to see. It’s too much to believe about John Huish. I can’t—I won’t have it. Why, it would break poor little Gerty’s heart.”
“Break her heart!” said Morrison bitterly. “Perhaps she would take a leaf out of her sister’s book.”