"I thought there was. Mr Coventry, here are your notes. I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence."
"But, I--I assure you, the--thing can't be."
"Still, I fancy, the thing is, and so, I see, do you. Mr Coventry, if it is not stretching feminine curiosity too far--in my case you have piqued it--might I ask who is the woman?"
"There isn't one; I assure you there isn't. But I'll tell you all about it." Mr Coventry fidgeted about the room, then sat down on the chair he had just vacated. "Have--have you ever heard of a Mrs Murphy?"
"Had she anything to do with Mr Murphy?"
"You mean the iron man? It's his widow. She's--she's stopping at the Métropole just now."
"Isn't she rich?"
"Awfully, horribly rich. In fact my--my uncle wrote to me about her."
"You mean Sir Frederick?"
"Yes, old rip! I wrote, asking if he could let me have a few hundreds, just to help me along. He wrote back saying that he couldn't, but that he could put me in the way of laying my hands on several hundred thousands instead. Then he spoke of the widow."