Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist. As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when such a theme offered.
Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact.
“I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never was a more lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she and I till some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent of me, of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if at all, as ‘Miss Melhuish’s husband.’ Nevertheless, we were devoted to each other until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author wrote a book which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my wife’s stage presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited.”
Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey, however.
“I name no names,” he said solemnly. “Nor am I telling you anything that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. From that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a fatal influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if not the very hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No—a thousand times no! You see me, a plain man, considerably her senior. I had not the gift of writing impassioned love passages in which she could display her artistic genius. When I came home from the City, tired after the day’s work, she was just beginning hers. You know what London fashionable life is—the theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady’s ‘reception,’ and the rest of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and the arts generally are not for poor fellows moiling in a City office. You gentlemen, I take it, are all happily married—”
“I’m not,” said Elkin, “but I’ll lay you long odds I will be soon.”
For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among his friends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars “stood” by this talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs’s cryptic allusion had meant.
“Good luck to you, sir,” he said, “but—take no offense—don’t marry an actress. There’s an old adage, ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ I would go farther, and interpolate the word ‘should.’ If Adelaide Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been.”
“D—n him,” muttered Elkin fiercely. “He’s done for now, anyhow. He’ll turn no more girls’ heads for a bit.”
“An’ five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for ’intin’ much the same thing,” chortled Hobbs.