"Mr. Bofinger," Fargus blurted out, "you remember Miss Vaughn?"
"Perfectly."
"Mr. Bofinger, won't you have something?" Fargus said desperately. The lawyer named his drink. His host, turning from the waiter, faced him with the manner of one about to overwhelm him with his disclosure.
"She is now Mrs. Fargus—my wife."
"Indeed?" the lawyer said politely, shooting up his cuffs, but nodding without astonishment.
"Well, doesn't that surprise you?" Fargus said, opening his eyes. Shrewd and tricky in his little specialty, in the minor experiences of life he was a little dull.
"Yes and no," the lawyer answered, examining the ash of his cigar. "From the standpoint of your attorney, yes. From any other standpoint," he added with a smile, "no."
"Then you suspected all the time?"
"Pardon me," Bofinger said, raising his hand half-way. "It was not my business to suspect, my business was to believe what you said. So Miss Vaughn is your wife?"