“No!” ejaculated Wingfield sharply. “I don’t believe it—it’s beneath him. We don’t understand each other at all if you think Wayne Craighill capable of anything so low, so base, so utterly despicable.”
He took off his eye-glasses, swung them the length of their gold chain, and glared at Walsh when he had replaced them.
“I should take the same view if I didn’t know some things that you don’t. I don’t question Wayne’s honour, but it’s no stronger than his sense of justice, and it’s the injustice that rankles and the feeling that the Colonel isn’t above magnifying his own virtue at the boy’s expense.”
Wingfield nodded in affirmation, but his astonishment grew at the wide range Walsh’s thoughts had taken.
“You imply that there are circumstances that confirm your impression that Wayne and Mrs. Craighill are not suitable companions for each other?”
“I imply nothing as to the future, or the present either, for that matter. What may interest you—and this is entirely in confidence—is the fact that Mrs. Craighill knew Wayne before she knew the Colonel!”
Walsh thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his office coat and chewed his cigar. He was no pedlar of gossip and Wingfield saw that he had not parted with this piece of information without a wrench.
“How did he know her? Was it bad or good?”
Walsh shook his head, and compressed his thin lips.
“I guess it was all right. He might have married her himself if the circumstances had been quite normal, but he found that they were trying to railroad him into it, and he backed water.”