‘Why indeed! Plain dealing will be best in this case. I think, as it is a simple matter of business, you had better let me arrange it with you. Laura, will you leave your kinsman’s claims for me to settle? You may trust me to take a liberal view of his position.’
‘I will trust you, dearest, now and always,’ answered his wife, giving him her hand, and then she went to Desrolles, and offered him the same frank hand, looking at him with tender earnestness. ‘Good night,’ she said, ‘and good-bye. I beg you to trust my husband, as I trust him. Believe me, it will be the best for all of us. He will be as ready to recognise your claim as I am, if you will only confide in him. If I have trusted him with my life, cannot you trust him with your secret?’
‘Good night,’ said Desrolles curtly. ‘I haven’t got over my astonishment yet.’
‘At what?’
‘At finding you married.’
‘Good night,’ she said again, on the threshold of the door, and then she came back to tell her husband not to fatigue or excite himself. ‘I can only give you a quarter of an hour,’ she said to Desrolles. ‘Pray remember that my husband is an invalid, and ought to be in bed.’
‘Go to your school children, dearest,’ said Treverton, smiling at her anxiety. ‘I shall be careful.’
The door closed behind Laura, and the two men—fellow-lodgers a year ago in Cibber Street—stood face to face with each other.
‘So you are John Treverton?’ said Desrolles, wiping his lips with that tremulous hand of his, and looking with a hungry eye at the half-empty decanter, looking anywhere rather than straight into the eyes of his fellow-man.
‘And you claim relationship with my wife?’