“So you take him into your confidence.”
“No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference is useless.”
“Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday?”
“No. Why should I? My hands are clean.”
“But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this man in the morning, and mention my name—Winter, of course, not Franklin.”
“Codlin’s your friend, not Short,” said Hart. “Sorry. It’s a time-worn jape, but it fitted in admirably.”
The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.
“I don’t think you need worry about Ingerman,” he went on, “though it’s well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements, especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He, too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only stumbling-block.”
“Siddle! That stick!” gasped Grant.
“Ridiculous, indeed monstrous,” agreed Winter, rather heatedly, “but nevertheless a candidate for the lady’s hand.”