"That on your signing that paper, agreeing to take back your wife and cease all action against Mr. Drummond, I will pay you five hundred pounds."
A slight noise in the rokenbedroom adjoining the room we were sitting in attracted my attention at this moment. There was some one listening to our conversation, and now that the full particulars of the conspiracy are known, I have no doubt it was Mrs. Selby. The movement of the fire-irons was most likely a pre-concerted signal. He strongly objected to the smallness of the sum, and dwelt on the great wrong than had been done him, which was bound to embitter his whole life.
"Well, Mr. Selby," I said, rising and taking up my hat, "I can make no addition to my offer."
"It is so little; think of my awkward position. Mr. Drummond, a perfect stranger, parts me from my friends, banishes me from places where I am known, and compels me to change my name. And, worst of all, after what has passed, my wife can never be the same to me that she once was. Put yourself in my place and you would think yourself utterly ruined."
"It is certainly a dreadfully unfortunate occurrence, but my friend can do nothing more; the fact is that he had the greatest difficulty to procure this sum."
"No compensation will ever heal the wound, but for my wife's sake I will take the money."
To satisfy my curiosity, and oblige Drummond, I made a few enquiries at West Brompton later in the week, and learned that on the same day I paid the money the furniture of the villa was sold privately, and it was reported in the neighbourhood that, on account of ill-health, Mrs. Selby had gone abroad.
Poor Drummond kept his word—what acute suffering it cost him was known only to himself—and did not attempt to see his wife of three months again, but his separation from her was killing him.