“My old friend,” said Hugh, after he had read the letter to the end, “I am not only heartily sorry for you, but I stand ready to do your bidding in any way within my power.” He held out his hand, which Captain Osborn grasped eagerly.
“Ah, Hugh,” he replied, huskily, “there are many sorrows in life, but those which have to do with the heart cause the most suffering. Happiness at best, where a woman is concerned, is usually coextensive with our ignorance. Do not think that I have been entirely blind in the months past. We all have sorrows, but it really seems to me that I have had my heart-strings tugged at rather more than my share. I should have killed that scoundrel of a fortune-hunter months ago; I would have done so, had it not been for little Harry,—poor little chap, I love him so tenderly that I don’t want the blot of murder on his family name,—it is not fair to bequeath dishonor to such a loving little fellow.” Hugh hardly knew what to say, the captain seemed so noble, so deserving of respect and pity. Presently he said: “Had we not better secure the letter written by your wi—Mrs. Osborn to you? It might help us to act more intelligently.”
“That’s right, Hugh, do not speak of her as my wife,” replied the captain. “I told you once that my wife could do no wrong; neither can she, for a woman ceases to be a wife when she dishonors her marriage vows. Go to the hotel and secure the other letter, if possible. I shall be very impatient for your return.”
Hugh left Captain Osborn alone in his room, and half an hour later returned.
“I found this letter, Captain, pushed partly under Lord Avondale’s door,” said he.
“It is Mrs. Osborn’s writing,” said the captain, as he scrutinized the superscription. “A military necessity compels me to open it,” he continued, and, after glancing it over, he handed it to Hugh. “Cash the check, and bring me the currency,” he said.
When Hugh returned to the room, the captain placed the money in his pocket, and then enclosed the Englishman’s letter in the envelope addressed to him, saying, “Seal it as carefully as you can, and push it under the door of his room at the hotel. I want the titled scoundrel to keep his appointment!”
It was after eleven o’clock that night when Captain Osborn, who had ever been most considerate and deferential to his wife, admitted himself with his private key to her boudoir, without ceremony. The pretty little room was brilliantly lighted. Mrs. Osborn and the Englishman occupied a dainty settee, a rare creation of a French upholsterer. Their faces were partially turned from the door through which the captain entered. Before them, on a small, richly-carved table, was a basket of fruit, some cake, and a bottle of wine.
“Pardon me for intruding,” said the captain, in a cold, metallic voice. With one startled impulse they turned, and saw standing before them the wronged husband.
“What, you here, Captain!” exclaimed his wife, angrily, “and unannounced? Why, how dare you, sir; how dare—” She could not finish the sentence. Her eyes fell before the keen, stern look of the old veteran.