“I’m going to see the thing through,” he said hoarsely.
“Quite so. Rely upon me. But endeavor to behave more like a man of the world and less like a dangerous lunatic, or we shall quarrel atrociously.”
Quentin Gray audibly gnashed his teeth, but the cool stare of the other’s eyes was quelling, and now as their glances met and clashed, a sympathetic smile softened the lines of Seton’s grim mouth, and:
“I quite understand, old chap,” he said, linking his arm in Gray’s. “But can’t you see how important it is, for everybody’s sake, that we should tackle the thing coolly?”
“Seton”—Gray’s voice broke—“I’m sorry. I know I’m mad; but I was with her only an hour ago, and now—”
“And now ‘her’ husband appears on the scene accompanied by a police inspector and a sergeant. What are your relations with Mr. Monte Irvin?”
They were walking rapidly again along Bond Street.
“What do you mean, Seton?” asked Gray.
“I mean does he approve of your friendship with his wife, or is it a clandestine affair?”
“Clandestine?—certainly not. I was on my way to call at the house when I met her with Pyne this evening.”