“I can put you on to one,” said Billiter. “No need to go abroad. She’s here in London.”
Huckaby called him uncomplimentary names. The Continental trip, as far as he was concerned, was the essence of the suggestion; the capture of the wild goose a remote consideration.
“Besides, old man,” said he, “this is my show.”
Billiter looked glum. After all, the idea was of no great value. Vandermeer’s cunning brain began to work. He asked Billiter for a description of the lady.
“She’s the widow of an old pal of mine,” replied Billiter. “Lady and all that sort of thing. Her husband, poor old chap, came to grief—Dragoon Guards—in the running for a title—went it too hot, you know—died leaving her with nothing at all. She has pulled through, somehow—lives in devilish good style, dresses expensively, and has the cleverness to hang on to her social position. Damned nice woman—but as for her heart, you could go at it with a pickaxe without risk of breaking it. I thought she would just suit the case.”
“Where does the money come from to live in good style and dress expensively?” asked Huckaby.
“Billiter thinks it might just as well come from Quixtus as from any one else. Don’t you, Billiter?”
Billiter nodded sagaciously and gulped down some whisky and water.
“And then we’d all stand in,” cried Vandermeer.
“That may be all very well in its way,” said Huckaby, “but I’m not going to give up my one chance of getting abroad.”