Next morning the entire press confirmed the triumph. “Acclaimed, without one dissentient note—” as the advertisements said.
Once again, then, a venture of the hardened gambler had turned up trumps. The money of Miss Verinder was not only safe, she had made the fortune of Mr. Alwyn Beckett. There were interviews with him; his photograph was everywhere—Mr. Beckett on the links, Mr. Beckett snapped in entering the stage door, Mr. Beckett hailing a taxi-cab. Full-page portraits of him enriched the illustrated weeklies. And he was nice in his new eminence, not swollen-headed, but modest and gay, just a manly young fellow, who, although so ambitious, valued success most of all because it brought him nearer to the lady of his love.
Mr. Leahurst, celebrating the affair in a manner quite alien to his custom, gave a magnificent supper-party at one of the most fashionable hotels, and Miss Verinder was placed at his side, in the place of honour. There were speeches, but he himself made none.
“Funny thing,” he said to Emmie, during supper, “how things falls out. To-day I finally got rid of my late wife.”
Emmie started, and looked at him in astonishment.
“What do you mean? Hasn’t Mrs. Leahurst been dead a long time?”
“No, she’s still alive. O’ny decree nisi. Made absolute to-day.”
After supper he asked her if she was satisfied, and he added that he had given the supper on her account. “I have done everything that I have done for the purpose of pleasing you.”
Emmie murmured a very faint acknowledgment; and, driving home, she felt grievously worried in the midst of her elation. Like others, she asked herself what was the matter with Mr. Leahurst.