“Why, to speak plainly, if you have married Vera, and love her, you should not carry another woman’s photograph. You should not leave your wife at Elveham. You know what I mean, well enough.”
A light dawned upon me. Bob thought the picture was that of some courtesan!
“Confound it all, old fellow, you jump to conclusions too readily,” I replied, with justifiable warmth.
“Well, what does it mean, then?” he asked, adding, “I don’t wish to pry into your secrets, but you’ll excuse me endeavouring, even just a little, to pull you up when you seem off the straight line. I should thank any one for doing so for me, if they meant it honestly.”
“I’m sure you would, Bob. This, I may tell you, is simply a little tiff which Vera and I have had, owing—oh, well, perhaps that’s sufficient.”
“I see. You don’t care to confide in me, therefore as I’ve business waiting for me, I’ll wish you good-bye,” he said, rather sadly, rising and extending his hand.
“Sit down, Bob, and don’t make a fool of yourself. How can I explain to you what I don’t myself understand? Answer me that, my Christian moraliser.”
“Then it has to do with her secret, eh? Have you never fathomed that yet?” he asked, eagerly, sinking into his chair again.
“What the devil do you know of her secret?” I demanded, in intense surprise. “How did you know there was one in connection with her?”
“Partly from my own observation, and partly from what I picked up after you left Genoa so suddenly. At that time I did not know you were going to marry her, or possibly I should not have been so inquisitive,” he replied rather disinterestedly.