“Now, look here, Yelverton,” he said presently. “You’ve not told me everything.”
“Yes I have,” I protested.
“You haven’t told me that you’ve fallen deeply in love with little Mrs. Audley. That is why I warned you—and still warn you—of rocks ahead.”
“I did not think that necessary,” I said with some heat. “That is surely my own affair!”
“Certainly,” he said, dryly, in the paternal tone he sometimes assumed. “But remember my first view of the situation was the correct one. I thought you extremely indiscreet to accept the trust you did. It was a highly dangerous one—for you.”
“But you agreed afterwards that I did the right thing,” I argued.
“You acted generously in the Little Lady’s interests, but you have certainly fallen into some extraordinary trap. That’s my point of view,” he answered. “In any case, you are in love with a wife whose husband is absent. That is quite enough to constitute a very grave danger to both of you. So, if I were you I’d keep away from her. Take my advice as an old man.”
His repeated warning angered me, and I fear that I did not attempt to conceal my impatience. At any rate I took my leave rather abruptly, and as I walked in the direction of Hammersmith Bridge I felt more than ever puzzled at his attitude, and more than ever determined not to deviate from the course upon which I had embarked.
CHAPTER IX
CROOKED PATHS
One cold evening I returned from the office after a heavy day which had been devoted to the successful settlement of a very complicated and serious action for libel against a provincial newspaper which we represented.