“The young lady who, for a while, was your secretary?”
In spite of himself, there was a note of deep disappointment in the voice in which Mr. Kentworthy asked the question.
Harry Garlett instinctively straightened himself.
“Miss Bower became secretary to the Etna China Company—not my personal secretary—just before my wife’s death.”
There was an awkward silence between the two men.
“I see,” said Mr. Kentworthy at last. “I see, Mr. Garlett.”
But, as a matter of fact, he felt as if he had walked from the bright sunshine into an evil-smelling fog. Quite a number of pages in his thick little notebook bore the heading “Miss Jean Bower.”
“Is the date of your wedding fixed?”
“Well, yes, it is.” Harry Garlett hesitated, then exclaimed impulsively—“We are to be married to-morrow morning, by special license! No one, however, knows that fact excepting the vicar and his wife, and, of course, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean.”
Again there followed a strange, painful silence.