“Don't you trouble to tell me all that part,” said Chevenix frowning at him. “I know more about that than you do. I was in it. My head, how they treated her! What I never did understand, you know, was how you found out where she was.”
Ingram smiled. His memories now amused him. He looked straight at his friend. “I'll tell you that. It was rather neat. You remember that chap Senhouse—loafing kind of artist? Anarchist, gypsy-looking chap, who wore no hat?”
Chevenix opened his eyes. “By George, I do!”
Ingram nodded. “She thought no end of him. He took her affair with me very much to heart.”
“As well he might,” said Chevenix. “I fancy that you were the only person who took it easy.”
“Sancie used to tell him everything,” Ingram went on, “and she told him all the trouble. She'd been turned adrift with fifty pounds to her name.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” Chevenix put in. “They locked her up with an aunt, and she bolted.”
“Same thing,” said Ingram. “Well, this chap Senhouse comes here one day in a mighty hurry—turns up at breakfast, and makes a row. Wants me to swear I'll divorce and marry Sancie. Says he thinks I'm a blackguard and all that, but that, on the whole, I'd better marry her. Refuses to give me her address, all the same. We had a row, I remember, because he began to tell me what he thought about her. The man was a bore, you know.”
Chevenix screwed up one leg. “All men are, if they're sweet on your sweetheart, I suppose. He was worth fifty of you, all the same—but go on.”
Ingram laughed. “I set my wits against his,” he said, “and found out that he'd come straight from seeing her—in London. That was good enough for me. I got rid of Master Senhouse, and went off to town. He had no promises out of me, you may believe.”