We had just dined with Boris and Bob Nugent, who had arrived as our guests that day. During the meal Vera had spoken of the scene at the hotel—not without some hesitation, however—and now we were alone she again alluded to it.
“Do you remember, Frank, it was on a similar night to this, that you saw, over there in the Dene, what your jealous eyes distorted into a meeting of lovers?”
“Yes, dearest; I do remember it. Boris being the man I saw leave the house in Bedford Place, I believed him to be the murderer,” I replied.
“Boris; the murderer!” cried my wife in surprise. “Ah! I understand, dear, what agony of mind such a discovery must have caused you. It was all my fault—everything,” she added, with regret.
“The mystification was not intentional, Vera,” I said, tenderly, encircling her slim waist with my arm. “But do not let us speak of it again.”
“Frank,” she exclaimed suddenly, as she placed her hand upon my shoulder tenderly, looking into my eyes, “Boris has yet something to tell you. Ah! here they come; you must hear it now.”
My two guests had emerged from the dining-room and were strolling leisurely towards us in full enjoyment of their goddess Nicotine.
My wife called them, and they came and seated themselves beside us.
“Now, Boris,” she said, “we have all met, and you can explain to Frank that complication you did not acquaint him with on the night of his acquittal.”
“What more can there be?” I asked, in unfeigned astonishment.