Purcell Sandys had been ruined. She knew it, and laughed.
She sat in Gray’s rooms in St. James’s smoking a cigarette before going to dine at a restaurant, and was discussing the situation.
“Really, my dear Gordon,” she said, puffing the smoke from her lips, “you are wonderful! You have the whole affair in your hands. We shall both make a fortune over this concession. The whole thing is as easy as falling off a log, thanks to you.”
“It hasn’t been so easy as you think, my dear Freda, that I can assure you,” he replied. “But I think we are now on a fair way towards bringing off our coup. The one great thing in our favour is old Homfray’s death. He knew far too much. At any moment he might have given us away. He was the one person in the whole world whom I feared.”
“And you were a fool to defy him by selling that petty bit of property at Totnes,” said the handsome woman.
“No, Freda, I wasn’t. I did it to prove that I defied him. When one man defies another it causes the defied to think. That is why I did it. I knew his secret—a secret that no parson could face in his own parish. And if he dared to say a word against me I should have told what I knew to the bishop.”
“Would the bishop have believed you?”
“Of course. He had only to look up the date of the criminal trial, then old Homfray, who knew so much of our little business, would have had to face the music. No, Freda, the old sky-pilot was too cute for us. He dared not face the music.”
“But the girl, Elma Sandys? She’s a good sort and—well, Gordon, I tell you, I’m a bit sorry for her.”
“I’m not. You and I will part for a bit, and I’ll marry her. By so doing I’ll gain a fortune, and then after a time I’ll come back to you, old girl. I won’t desert you—I promise that!”