Mrs. V. B. This is scarcely an explanation.
Fitz. Scarcely an explanation. Twenty years ago, when in Australia, Smailey forged a burial-certificate to get some trust-funds into his possession. The job was given to our house to investigate, only six weeks ago. Two days after, who should come to us for a detective to inquire into your affairs but Smailey, so we put the two jobs together, and I’m doing ’em both.
Mrs. V. B. But how is it that a gentleman in your profession——
Fitz. A gentleman! Mrs. Van Brugh, for reasons that will go down with me to the tomb, I am humbly and hopelessly anxious to stand high in your good opinion. Appreciate my disinterestedness, when I voluntarily tell you that which will blight me in your estimation for ever. You think I’m an eminent solicitor. I ain’t; I’m the insignificant minion of a Private Inquiry Office.
Mrs. V. B. But you were introduced to me as a solicitor.
Fitz. It is a tantalizing feature of my contemptible calling, that I am continually being introduced as somebody I should particularly like to be. In the course of the last twelve months, I’ve been a Spanish Hidalgo, a Colonel of Hussars, an Ashantee Nobleman, and a Bishop of the Greek Church. What was the date of your marriage?
Mrs. V. B. Some time in February, ’56 (with hesitation).
Fitz. Day?
Mrs. V. B. The—the 30th.
Fitz. The 30th? Try again. Never more than twenty-nine days in February—seldom that.