“Promise me one thing, Dick,” he said, as he stood in the hall, holding my hand in a firm, friendly grip of farewell.
“Well,” I asked, “what is it?”
“That you’ll try and forget all about this mystery of yours,” he said earnestly. “You’ll be getting brain fever, or something equally disagreeable, if you don’t try to control yourself and think no more of it. The experience is unusual, but, depend upon it, the mystery is so well-kept by the set of scoundrels into whose hands you fell, that you’ll never get to the bottom of it.”
“But I mean to solve it,” I said resolutely. “I’m married, my dear fellow, and—well, I love her.”
“I know. That’s just the devil of it,” he answered bluntly. “You’re gone on her, and the mystery makes you the more eager to claim her as your wife!”
“Exactly, old fellow,” I answered. “I know that you’re my best friend. Indeed, you have kept me out of the gutter or the common lodging-house these past weeks, and I am ready to repay you in any way in my power; but as to taking your advice in this matter, I really can’t.”
“Then, you’re a fool, Dick.”
“I may be,” I responded; “but I mean to clear up the mystery.”
“Because you are jealous of this young Chetwode.”
“I don’t deny that I’m jealous,” I replied with perfect frankness. “But I know that Beryl is in danger, and, as her husband, I should be at her side to protect her.”