“Your husband,—is he with you?” I asked.
She raised her beautiful pinkish eye-lids toward the ceiling. “Still asleep ... he was unusually crocked last night. You know he has taken up the vices. He tries to be brutal.”
“Does he beat you?” I put the question frankly because I knew it was the traditional thing and I felt that she would appreciate a direct method.
“No,” she said simply. “He would like to but he doesn’t dare. He does his worst however. He bites.”
She slipped back the soft sleeve of her gown and extended an arm. I shrank back in horror. The dog! A semi-circle of teeth-marks marred the salmon-silkiness of the loveliest fore-arm in the world.
Involuntarily I paled and yet felt curiously relieved. This proof of dastardly conduct on her husband’s part seemed to make easier the thing I knew I should eventually have to do, namely, take this gorgeous creature from him.
Turning toward the parrot to hide my emotion I said “Madame,—I am sorry to bring you bad news ... but we are both summoned to appear before the local police magistrate the day after tomorrow. The charge is murder. You are a material witness. The affair is entirely technical, but there are unseen influences at work. The young man,—the scoundrel who attempted to steal your gold, was well-connected, of an old Peruvian family. They have cabled representations to the Monacan government. The whole affair has the look of a nasty, political embroglio. It may last some time. I was once called as a witness to a trolley accident in Jerusalem and six months afterward....”
“I will hear all that later. Today is Tuesday. Call for me Thursday morning—what is the hour? eleven? Good—be here at ten-thirty: I will not fail you. Adios.”
Again saluting her à la française, I departed.
For two days I carried her image in my heart. I know not how it is with others but when I have once decided to love a certain person I find it a simple matter to do so. At the first glimpse of Lady Wimpole my heart, had, so to speak, assumed a crouching posture. It only remained for me to tell my emotions what to do, just as I might direct my great police dog, Graustein, to stop a suspicious character. By now I was thoroughly aroused. The memory of those atrocious teeth-marks and that blemished fore-arm were fresh fuel.