“Worth much!” cried Abbott. “What do you imply by that?”
“No man will really give up a woman who is really worth while, that is, of course, admitting that your man, Courtlandt, is a man. Perhaps, though, it was his fault. He was not persistent enough, maybe a bit spineless. The fact that he gave up so quickly possibly convinced her that her impressions were correct. Why, I’d have followed her day in and day out, year after year; never would I have let up until I had proved to her that she had been wrong.”
“The colonel is right,” Abbott approved, never taking his eyes off Courtlandt, who was apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the bread crumbs under his fingers.
“And more, by hook or crook, I’d have dragged in the other woman by the hair and made her confess.”
“I do not doubt it, Colonel,” responded Courtlandt, with a dry laugh. “And that would really have been the end of the story. The heroine of this rambling tale would then have been absolutely certain of collusion between the two.”
“That is like a woman,” the Barone agreed, and he knew something about them. “And where is this man now?”
“Here,” said Courtlandt, pushing back his chair and rising. “I am he.” He turned his back upon them and sought the garden.
Tableau!
“Dash me!” cried the colonel, who, being the least interested personally, was first to recover his speech.
The Barone drew in his breath sharply. Then he looked at Abbott.