“Well,” said the latter, “what has your wife been saying to you?”
“Well, your late wife, though you ain’t divorced yet, are you?”
“No,” said Jones.
He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying.
That lovely creature his wife! Rochester’s wife!
“Get in,” said the unknown. He had called a taxi.
Jones got in.
Rochester’s wife! The contrast between her and Lady Plinlimon suddenly arose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seen gigantically and in a new light.
The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly; they got out; the unknown paid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modest brass door plate inscribed with the words: