“First item: I don’t need to remind you that I’m retained by Mr. Morton to look after Jack; say in a week I bring in a report that Jack has contracted a secret marriage—which means a bill for ten thousand for detective services, which I’ll split with you. Second item: he’ll want a divorce; I’ll handle the case and get a big fee—that’s where I come in. You’ll not fight, if he’ll pay high enough; that’s where you clean up between a hundred thousand and half a million—and being on the inside I’ll be in a position to tell you the top figure that Morton will pay. And third item: freed of this mess, and with Mrs. Jack Morton as your legal name, there’s no end to the big propositions I could put across for and with you—you with your looks and brains, and I with my inside knowledge of New York domestic life. Big stuff—big, I tell you! I could land you close to the top!”
His enthusiasm, which had mounted as he spoke, now abated to a tone of solid, unanswerable argument. “That’s why I say to you to drop your present impossible game, and come into these new propositions.”
She did not answer at once; so that he was led to prompt her: “That’s plain enough, isn’t it, Mary?—that the thing to do is to stop thinking about Jack and come in on these other lines?”
“Perhaps,” she answered steadily. “But first, I’ve got to find out about Jack. I don’t believe what you believe.”
“Well, I’m disappointed—though perhaps I don’t blame you. But the proposition stands open.”
With the philosophic sigh of the man to whom the world has taught patience, he fell upon the remainder of his half of the guinea-hen. Clifford saw him rub his napkin twice across his mouth, place it upon his knees, from where it slipped to the floor—which may or may not have been a signal. But, at any rate, the next moment a waiter, who had been standing close at hand, opened the door of the nearest cabinet particulier. “Did you ring?” he said, and stepping inside left the door open. Mary’s gaze, wandering from her table-mate, went through the doorway, and she saw, what Clifford also saw from his retreat: Jack Morton, his features soddenly loose, leaning in a stupor against the shoulder of a woman.
She stared fixedly at this picture so unexpectedly enframed by the doorway; then involuntarily there burst from her lips:—
“Good God—look!”
Loveman raised his eyes from his guinea-hen, and followed her gaze. “Well—of all things!”
The waiter, coming out, closed the door, and the brief picture was gone. Then Loveman turned on Mary, his big eyes wide with amazement.