Sangster made no comment; he put down his pen, pushed his chair back a little and waited.
Jimmy blew an agitated puff of smoke into the air and blurted out again: "She says she won't stay with me; she says——" He threw out his hands agitatedly. "It wasn't my fault; I swear to you that it wasn't my fault, Sangster. Things were going swimmingly, and then the letter came—and that finished it." He was incoherent—stammering; but Sangster seemed to understand.
"Cynthia Farrow?" he asked briefly.
"Yes. The letter was sent on from the hotel where Christine had been staying with her mother. It had been delayed two days, as the people didn't know where she was." He swallowed hard, as if choking back a bitter memory. "It came about an hour after we left you."
"On your wedding day?" Sangster was flushed now; his eyes looked very distressed.
Jimmy turned away.
"Yes," he said in a stifled voice. "If I'd only seen the accursed thing—but I didn't; she opened it, and then——" There was a long pause before he went on again jerkily. "I did my best—even then—but she wouldn't believe me; she doesn't believe me now. I swore that I'd never see Cynthia again; I swore that I'd do anything in the whole world she wanted——"
"Except the one thing which you cannot do, I suppose," Sangster interposed quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Love her," said Sangster. "That's what I mean."