Directly we were alone in the Medworth Square morning-room, she opened fire on me.
“Frank has been asking what has become of you lately, Vincent,” she said—“what have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ve been seeing a good deal of some Americans at the ‘Victoria,’ and a good deal in and out of town.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing of any importance. How’s Mollie?”
“You can go and see Mollie afterwards. Now, look here, Vincent, you’re up to something, and I mean to know what it is. I can’t have my only brother drifting into a scrape, without doing my best to keep him out of it. You’d better make a clean breast. I shall be sure to find out.”
I’d half a mind to tell her a downright fib and stop her importunities that way; but I’d the instinct she knew something of the fact, and was well aware that, if she weren’t told all, would set her prig of a husband to work; and then our enterprise would as likely as not be nipped in the bud by being made public property.
So, on the whole, I judged it best to tell her exactly what we were doing and were going to do, taking care only to bind her over to the completest secrecy, which, once she had given her word, I knew she would die sooner than break.
She was half amused, half frightened, and at first wholly incredulous.
“But who on earth have you found to join you in such a cracked scheme?” she asked. “I didn’t know you’d so many desperate lunatics among your acquaintances.”