THE OTHER. 
 MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Frank 
 Richardsoa
 
 *
 
 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE
 
 BT FRANK RICHARDSON 
 2835 MAYFAIR 
 LOVE AND ALL ABOUT IT 
 THERE AND BACK 
 THE SECRET KINGDOM 
 THE BAYSWATER MIRACLE 
 THE KING'S COUNSEL 
 SEMI-SOCIETY 
 THE MAN WHO LOST HIS PAST
 
 The Other 
 Man's Wife 
 
 By 
 Frank Richardson 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 2 East zgth Street
 
 Copyright, 1908 
 By Mitchell Kennerley All Rights Reserved
 
 To 
 
 My Friend 
 R. H.
 
 Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten 
 in secret is pleasant, but he knoweth not 
 that the dead are there, and her guests 
 are in the depths of hell. PROVERBS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" . . 7 
 
 II. A HOME IN BAYSWATER ... 20 
 
 III. THE PALL MALL THEATRE ... 28 
 
 IV. A MOTHERS' MEETING .... 45 
 
 V. BAYSWATER BILLY .... 54 
 
 VI. THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR . 59 
 
 VII. AN EMINENT MEDICAL MAN . . 73 
 
 VIII. THE BEHAVIOUR OF BILLY ... 82 
 
 IX. THE BEST CLERK IN THE TEMPLE . Ql 
 
 X. A DINNER PARTY . . . . 100 
 
 XI. "A COLD WOMAN" . . . . 114 
 
 XII. THE DEFENCE OF THE YOGHI AND PRISCILLA 123 
 
 XIII. CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE . . . 132 
 
 XIV. MRS. AINSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP . 142 
 
 XV. THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE . 152 
 
 XVI. "WEDDING OF AN EMINENT ACTOR'S SISTER" 163 
 
 XVII. IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM . . 172 
 
 XVIII. LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY . . . 185 
 
 XIX. THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH . 1Q8 
 
 XX. "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" . . . 211 
 
 XXI. "WOPSERING" 226 
 
 XXII. A GREAT TRIUMPH .... 240 
 XXIII. CONCERNING THE LOYALTY OF LADY 
 
 MEYVILLE ..... 249 
 
 XXIV. THE GREAT SORROW AND THE TOPIC . 258 
 
 XXV. THE POSITION OF BILLY . . . 26 t 
 
 XXVI. THE ATTITUDE OF LADY MEYVILLE . . 27-
 
 6 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER p AOE 
 
 XXVII. IN THE DIVORCE COURT . . . 276 
 
 XXVIII. THE PROPOSED PROSECUTION OF "A. B." . 286 
 
 XXIX. THE ANNIVERSARY .... 293 
 
 XXX. THE CRY IN THE NIGHT . . . . 303 
 
 XXXI. THE REVOLVER . . . . . 311 
 
 XXXII. THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE" . 317 
 
 XXXIII. RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN . . . 32Q 
 
 XXXIV. THE UTILITY OF DR. PLAGDEN . . 340 
 
 XXXV. THE DEFENCE OF GABRIELLE LEVI . 348 
 
 XXXVI. THE FUNERAL 356 
 
 XXXVII. ILLNESS 362 
 
 XXXVIII. NURSES . . . . . . 372 
 
 XXXIX. "STANDETH THE REAPER" . . . 382 
 XL. THE SUMMING-UP
 
 The Other Man's Wife 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 
 
 "Tnis is the sweetest thing you have ever written 
 to me." 
 
 An affectation of amused bewilderment was the 
 young man's answer to her pause. 
 
 As he lay on the sofa, his eyes opened. But they 
 seemed, if they expressed anything, to express entire 
 absence of mind. 
 
 "You know what I mean," she said. 
 
 Then she drew from her bodice a small piece of folded 
 paper. "You know now," she persisted, walked to the 
 sofa, sat down by his side, and read : 
 
 "Mr DARLING, By all means. Who kisses your 
 eyes ? RICHARD." 
 
 She looked at him tenderly, confident in his love, and 
 seeking only some slight formal appreciation from him. 
 But he made no reply. 
 
 "Isn't it sweet?" she asked, intent on exciting his 
 interest. 
 
 "You like it?" 
 
 She drew away from him for a second, as she said 
 affectionately and without any suggestion of criticism: 
 
 "It isn't often that I get a really perfect letter from
 
 8 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 you. But this is delightful. This means you. It's 
 businesslike, but it's kind . . . it's you." 
 
 Gwendolen hung upon her pleasure in the note. 
 
 The young man, smiling, stroked the back of her 
 neck with a familiarly caressing action. 
 
 Then he rose, and walked to the mantelpiece, with the 
 long, swinging stride that was characteristic of him. 
 He turned to the table on which were sandwiches, a 
 carafe of whisky, a syphon of soda-water, and a crystal 
 jug of lemonade. He handed her a glass of lemonade. 
 He poured out some whisky and soda, and, in doing so, 
 caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. 
 
 "I am feeling terribly tired, dear." 
 
 "Come and sit down," she said, patting the sofa with 
 a slim white hand. 
 
 He sat by her side. 
 
 For a moment he was silent, as he gazed in placid 
 content at the luxury of his surroundings. The decora- 
 tion of the library had been Gwendolen's own idea. On 
 the walls were panels of untanned cowhide, studded with 
 dull brass nails, set in dead-black oak. A huge cop- 
 per lantern hung from one of the oaken rafters, shed- 
 ding a warm red and yellow glow on the leather. 
 The solitary bookcase contained only forty books, each 
 in a binding appropriate to its contents. From the 
 mass of her reading Gwendolen had, a year or two ago, 
 selected these volumes as suitable to all possible moods 
 in her life. These forty should be "Immortals" for her. 
 She had chosen the books simply for her own satisfac- 
 tion, so her selection was in a great degree indicative 
 of her temperament. By the side of "Pride and Preju- 
 dice" stood "The Decay of Lying," the original manu- 
 script for which she had paid 150 guineas. One was in 
 a binding of vellum, the other of jade-green leather.
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 9 
 
 From the Old Testament she had selected the love-poem 
 of Solomon and his "Wisdom," a slender volume of 
 rose-pink. Next to it was a superb edition-de-luxe of 
 Swinburne. From Balzac she had chosen "Cousin 
 Bette" and "Cousin Pons," "Splendeurs et Miseres des 
 Courtisanes" and "Fere Goriot." "The Bab Ballads," 
 in a jewelled binding, was next to a couple of early 
 works by Henry James. Then came one book of Huys- 
 mann's and three by Renan. Then "Richard Yea and 
 Nay" followed by "Magdalen's Husband," "The Man 
 Who Lost His Past," "Virginibus Puerisque," and "The 
 Maxims of Father Faber." Kipling was represented by 
 a volume of verse, and a book of Indian stories. Of 
 history, theology, or travel there was no trace. The 
 other volumes were as various in character as those 
 enumerated. She had snatched from literature such 
 spoils as were suited to the taste of the woman she 
 believed herself to be. 
 
 On occasions she had erred, had found that an 
 alleged friend was really an unfortunate acquaintance 
 in one case an intolerable bore. Such volumes she 
 had displaced; they had made admirable wedding gifts 
 approved by their recipients. 
 
 The walls were pictureless. On the parquet floor lay 
 a few Eastern rugs, soft and heather-red. The har- 
 monies of the room were so skilfully arranged that in 
 all temperatures its own temperature seemed exactly 
 normal. 
 
 There was absolute quiet in Green Street. 
 
 He felt that her eyes were fixed on his face. He 
 turned and looked at her. 
 
 He noticed the wonderful growth of her black hair, 
 hair that tenderly draped the brow on which it nestled. 
 The white of her forehead was illumined by yellow-
 
 10 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 brown eyes, soft yet severe, expressive of her most 
 notable characteristic fixity of purpose. Under her 
 eyes were strongly marked lines of violet, which gave a 
 certain mysticism to her expression. This violet col- 
 ouring might have implied slight weariness or sorrow. 
 But, in her case, he knew that this was not so. What- 
 ever the shadows meant, they were prophetic rather 
 than descriptive. The warm, full lips seemed almost 
 an unnatural crimson in a delicate oval of white and 
 pink, satin and rose petals. There was a silvery gleam 
 on her skin. Her neck was well set on gracefully slop- 
 ing, opalescent shoulders, and, in her figure, he saw 
 dainty suggestions rather than crude statements of 
 facts. She was exquisitely dressed. As she rose sud- 
 denly with energetic grace from the sofa and moved 
 away from him sinuously in her black spangles, he 
 remarked how suavely over the perfect curves fell the 
 rustling triumph of the dressmaker. Tall though she 
 was, she possessed the dainty charm generally associ- 
 ated only with little women, a fact which had been 
 brought out in a brilliant picture of her by William 
 Nicholson. 
 
 She stood by the mirror, stroking with her hands 
 the shining waves of hair on the sides of her head, and 
 looking at his reflection in the glass. 
 
 "My dear Richard, if you are too tired to talk, 
 surely you are too tired to think. At any rate, I am too 
 tired to watch you thinking about anybody but me." 
 
 Then she turned round directly, smiling at him. 
 
 He rose from the sofa, and walked to her side, fas- 
 cinated and revived by her supple beauty. 
 
 "I am awfully sorry, dear, but I have been working 
 hard to-day. I ought not to have gone to the theatre 
 with you."
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 11 
 
 "You have been working hard all day," she said, as 
 she put her hands on his shoulders, "and you have 
 made five guineas, is it? People who are underpaid 
 are always paid in guineas. There is something more 
 dignified in receiving a hundred guineas than in making 
 a million pounds." 
 
 He laughed with no sign of weariness. 
 
 "I think I have made about eight guineas, partly 
 in the Whitechapel County Court, partly at the Old 
 Bailey, and ... I have drawn an advice on evidence." 
 
 "And now my darling is tired. I've paid a big price 
 for your eight guineas." 
 
 It pained her to think that his work should absorb 
 him to the point of leaving no enthusiasm for her 
 society. 
 
 The two had been to see the first production of a 
 new piece. They had witnessed a tedious play, during 
 which Richard said nothing to relieve the monotony. 
 In the entr'acte, which she had hoped to find the most 
 interesting part of the production, he had left her side, 
 and she had felt no little annoyance in watching him, 
 at the entrance of the stalls, talking with animation to 
 people of eminence, prominent solicitors, leading King's 
 Counsel, newspaper proprietors, and persons whose 
 friendship was of value to him people to whom she 
 had introduced him. The fact that many friends spoke 
 to her with unmistakable admiration as they passed or 
 sat down for a chat in his empty seat afforded her no 
 satisfaction. 
 
 He was a struggling barrister. But need he be 
 perpetually struggling? Success is of all characteris- 
 tics the one that a woman most admires in a man. 
 But the methods by which it is attained are seldom 
 interesting to the woman. And it was particularly
 
 12 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 galling to Gwendolen that Richard would leave her at 
 a moment's notice to pursue any trivial course which 
 should advance him one hair's breadth in his career. 
 
 And now, when they were alone, he was inanimate 
 from the labours of the day. For an instant she felt 
 irritated at the strength that showed itself so con- 
 spicuously in his smooth brown hair, the almost aggres- 
 sive cut of his chin, the brilliant dark blue eyes, the 
 sinuous and nervous hands, and the vigorous set of his 
 shoulders. 
 
 That her rival in his affection was, she knew, his 
 own profession, and not another woman, detracted lit- 
 tle from the bitterness of the rivalry. She was well 
 aware that his profession formed the major portion of 
 his life. This she had always known, and her every act, 
 since she had won his love, had been to press him 
 towards success to increase thereby the attractions of 
 her rival . . . and perhaps to gain some additional 
 gratitude towards herself. 
 
 He had made up his mind that he would reach emi- 
 nence as a barrister, and she felt that the surest way 
 to secure her happiness was to further him in his efforts 
 in that direction. 
 
 His hand sought his watch. He was going. 
 
 "Don't trouble, dear," she said, "it is half-past 
 twelve." 
 
 To yield in small things is a convention in the art 
 of love : so she added : 
 
 "Before you go, I have something to tell you some- 
 thing of importance. It is not about myself: it is 
 about you. Can you wait?" 
 
 Putting his arm round her waist, he said: 
 
 "I should prefer it to be something about you, 
 Gwendolen."
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 13 
 
 '"Nonsense," she answered. "Give me five minutes 
 and be good. Sit down on the sofa. You know that 
 talking about you gives me far more pleasure than 
 talking about myself. You can't accuse me of egotism, 
 can you?" 
 
 "You and I are partners. You have done everything 
 in the world to help me. You discovered in me merits 
 that I shall never possess until I am too old to use 
 them. It has been awfully sweet of you, Gwen. But, 
 you know, love, like any other religion, demands cer- 
 tain sacrifices of the intellect, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Don't moralise, dear. I really have something to say 
 to you something that may be of great importance. 
 Last night I was dining with Sir Thomas Clutterbuck, 
 and there were lots of legal people present. After din- 
 ner, two barristers, Counsel to the Treasury or some- 
 thing, were talking mysteriously to one another. I 
 caught a wave of conversation that somehow drifted to 
 me. They were talking about this horrible Yoghi 
 case." 
 
 "By Jove, that's a cheery drawing-room topic !" com- 
 mented Richard. 
 
 "It is the only topic that is talked about in draw- 
 ing-rooms just now. So much of the evidence is left 
 out in the newspaper reports that we have to fill it in 
 over the tea-tables. Everybody in the country is curi- 
 ous to know what were the precise offences committed 
 by the Yoghi and Priscilla." 
 
 "But, after all, these people have not been convicted 
 yet." 
 
 "On the contrary," replied Gwendolen, "they have 
 been found guilty by every newspaper in England 
 they have been sentenced by every Anglo-American 
 journal in London."
 
 14 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "The portraits of the Yoghi that I've seen are tan- 
 tamount to a previous conviction." 
 
 "Of course, but these two legal harpies were lament- 
 ing with a kind of ghoulish enthusiasm the fact that the 
 prey cannot really be killed. It seems that there is 
 some sort of flaw, do you call it? in the indictment, 
 and that if these terrible people could afford to have 
 themselves defended they would get off." 
 
 "That's absurd," said Richard. "Of course, they're 
 guilty." 
 
 She smiled, but she smiled with intention. 
 
 "I wish you would take a more professional view of 
 the matter. I imagine these men know something about 
 it ; one, I think, is a Counsel in the case. I suppose, 
 Richard, you are not the only barrister who takes the 
 trouble to read his briefs." 
 
 "Very interesting, dear, very interesting. Good- 
 night." 
 
 He had the rare gift of saying unpleasant things 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "Is it possible that you don't understand? This is 
 the great chance of your lifetime." 
 
 "In what way?" he asked, staring at vacancy with 
 analytical eyes. 
 
 "In the simplest of all possible ways ! You must go 
 to some solicitor; you must tell him to take up the 
 case; and he must instruct you to appear at the Old 
 Bailey." 
 
 "My dear, I can't do that sort of thing." 
 
 "Here is the chance of your lifetime," she persisted. 
 "You can get these people off. Of course, they are 
 hideously, horribly, revoltingly guilty, and if you can 
 bring about their acquittal and you can you will 
 be the most-talked about man in England."
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 15 
 
 Though she spoke very earnestly, he turned away. 
 
 "Ah !" she smiled. "I know I have said the wrong 
 tiling. I know that you belong to the strictest Trades 
 Union in the country." She held his face in her hands 
 as she continued: "You are all ridiculously puffed up 
 with pride. And what are you barristers, after all? 
 Merely the maids-of-all-work to the Goddess of Justice. 
 And half the time you get in her way and prevent her 
 doing the slightest good. What's your own personal 
 objection to a huge advertisement? Of course, you're 
 right in theory. But in practice, no man can live with- 
 out advertisement to-day." 
 
 He remained firm. 
 
 "Such a thing is out of the question. I can't dream 
 of it." 
 
 "I want you to understand what the result of your 
 success in this case would be." 
 
 "Oh," he said, "I understand perfectly. You know 
 that I'm getting on fairly well, thanks in a very, very 
 large extent to you, dear, and for that I'm very grate- 
 ful . . . but it's slow work." 
 
 Then she became petulant: 
 
 "You are grateful to me for what I've done for you, 
 and I am glad, with all my heart, that you've let me 
 do it. But now I am asking you to do something for 
 yourself which you would let me do for you, if I could ; 
 but, you see, I can't. For some insane reason, for 
 some mediaeval respect for effete institutions, you will 
 not do it yourself. I am your partner, am I not?" 
 
 "In what?" he asked, well knowing the answer. 
 
 "In everything, I hope." Her face was mobile with 
 the enthusiasm of her love as she continued: "I do the 
 social side, the work that is suitable for a woman to 
 do, and it is my greatest pleasure to contribute in the
 
 16 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 least bit to your future success. You are going to be 
 a success, and you know it. And I should know very 
 little about you, indeed, if I were not firmly convinced 
 that success astounding success is the great desire 
 of your life." 
 
 He moved towards her, but she interpreted his move- 
 ment correctly. 
 
 "No," she said, "I know what you are going to 
 say. You are going to say that I am the great object 
 of your life; but I am not. I know that success is 
 vital to your happiness, and that in the case of all men 
 there is no possibility of lasting love even when the 
 man and the woman are not married and have that 
 chance in their favour unless it's set in an atmosphere 
 of contentment. In a man's life, love is an extra ; in a 
 woman's if she loves at all it is a necessity. Though 
 this has been said before, it is still true. If you are 
 disappointed in your ambition, you will be disappointed 
 in me. You may never blame me, but you will be 
 dissatisfied with me. Here is a splendid chance for 
 you. Richard, take my advice, and arrange for this 
 defence." 
 
 He did not trouble to argue ; he simply said : 
 
 "My dear, you don't understand. The thing is im- 
 possible! It is unprofessional." 
 
 His lips shut tightly, and from long experience of 
 his moods Gwendolen felt that to insist further would 
 be useless. 
 
 "You are very foolish," she answered, "very, very 
 foolish. I am only two years older than you, and yet 
 I am afraid it will be ten years before you will ever 
 learn as much worldly wisdom as I had ten years ago." 
 
 "Were you very worldly-wise at twenty-two?" 
 
 She thought for a moment, and then said :
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 17 
 
 "I have always understood that the art of life lay 
 in getting exactly what one wanted." 
 
 "Well, I shall not do this," was his answer. 
 
 "We shall see," she replied. 
 
 However, he smiled, but she saw that he was not 
 to be moved. 
 
 "I give in," she said with a suddenness surprising to 
 him, for in most things she had hitherto had her way, 
 and he could not remember that he had ever found her 
 in the wrong. She put her hands on his broad shoul- 
 ders as she looked at the face of the man she loved. 
 His short brown hair had in it just a ripple that shone 
 in the light. It grew thickly in a manner indicative 
 of strength, suggestive of vast energy, difficult to 
 disarrange, fitting, it seemed, tightly to his temples, 
 which were singularly white. She gazed in admiration 
 at the square-cut forehead, the straight, strong eye- 
 brows that, when he frowned, almost met over his clear 
 blue eyes, the firmly-cut nose, slender and slightly too 
 long, with nervous nostrils. Then, from her point of 
 view, the face deteriorated. The upper lip was too 
 long. The mouth was thin, and might have been 
 regarded as almost passionless by anyone but her. 
 His teeth were square and white. And the chin she 
 had admitted that she hated it. She had accused him 
 of having an old chin on a young face, and he could 
 make no defence. Having completed her examination 
 of his features, she put up her lips to be kissed. 
 
 "You'll be a wonderful old man a frightening old 
 man. I don't think I shall like you when you're an 
 old man." 
 
 "I must risk that," he laughed. 
 
 "But the main point is that you will love me always, 
 as you do now, only more, won't you?"
 
 18 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Yes, always and always, darling," he answered as 
 he moved aside a sapphire and diamond pendant to 
 kiss her. 
 
 The doors of the library opened, and there entered a 
 small, lank man of fifty, with thin legs that shambled 
 along as though with difficulty supporting the weight 
 of the rest of his frame. His pale, almost yellow face 
 was graven with deep lines, suggestive of ill-health; 
 his prominent, straight nose was almost transparent; 
 his mouth was weak without being sensitive; he had a 
 curious habit of passing his tongue rapidly across his 
 lips, like a ferret licking the blood of slaughtered 
 chickens. Prematurely bald, tufts of grey hair grew 
 upon arid places on his head and in his ears. He had 
 a vague, straggling, grey moustache. Prominent were 
 his black eyes, and circled by reddish rims ; his cheek- 
 bones were protuberant; he was smoking an immense 
 cigar. He wore gold spectacles. 
 
 The only son of "Jake" Ainslie, sometime Mayor 
 of Manchester in the flourishing forties, he had been 
 sent to Rugby and to Oxford. 
 
 "Jake," a pioneer in many things, had been among 
 the first of the north country cotton-spinners to grasp 
 the fact that the elimination of a Lancashire accent 
 was not fatal to companionable qualities. But Wilfred 
 at Oxford Wadham, alas ! had not shown any symp- 
 toms of parts or of promise. He had done nothing. 
 He had known nobody. 
 
 When during his last year in residence his father 
 had died, leaving him an income of 15,000 a year, 
 he came definitely to the conclusion that London, not 
 Manchester, was the capital of England. London was 
 the place to live in. His innate north country instinct 
 had led him to believe that cotton-spinning was not
 
 "THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. AINSLIE" 19 
 
 the most secure of industries. Therefore, he disposed 
 of the business on admirable terms at the best possible 
 moment. But he remained in touch with his Manches- 
 ter friends. He consulted them, not one or two, but 
 five or six or seven, as to his investments. They gave 
 him their best advice, for his father's sake. And the 
 best advice of a Manchester man, respected in Man- 
 chester circles, where respect is hard of gaining, is the 
 best financial advice in the world. As a result, he had 
 for many years enjoyed an income of from eighteen 
 to twenty-eight thousand a year. 
 
 His wife he chose himself, without consulting Man- 
 chester. Being rich and earnestly ugly, he would have 
 made an ideal husband to many Manchester girls. 
 
 Manchester never forgave him his marriage with 
 Gwendolen Paxton-Pryce, a name absolutely unknown 
 in Manchester. 
 
 With a movement of genial hospitality Mr. Ainslie 
 crossed the parquet floor. A slight slip on a sliding 
 rug marred the effect of his entrance. 
 
 "Had bad luck," said Wilfred, "had bad luck ; I've 
 been playing bridge whist at the club all the evening, 
 and made precisely 2 6*." 
 
 A burst of coughing interrupted him. He then 
 succeeded in jerking out, "Very good of you to take 
 my wife to the theatre, Richard really very good of 
 you. Fearful waste of time! You ought to be read- 
 ing your briefs, you know. When you're my age you 
 can go to the theatre with a pretty woman, and then, 
 by gad, you will have too much sense to do it." 
 
 Richard said good-night to the husband and wife, 
 and went out of the house.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A HOME IN BAYSWATER 
 
 HE turned out into the street, and decided to walk 
 home, partly from economy, which had long been 'a 
 natural and necessary habit of his, and partly because, 
 tired though he was, he felt a desire to draw up some 
 sort of mental balance-sheet of his position. 
 
 The night was fine under a dull blue sky. Passing 
 the Marble Arch with its flaming coffee-stall, he walked 
 westward in the shadow of the trees. 
 
 In spite of the conditions of chronic and irritating 
 impecuniosity in which he lived, he considered that his 
 fortunes were taking a turn for the better. 
 
 His time was fully occupied with slightly-paid work 
 on his own behalf, and gratuitous work on behalf of 
 other barristers. But his practice and his experience 
 had increased considerably during the last four years, 
 and he felt that he was justified in believing himself 
 capable of conducting, single-handed, any such cases 
 as could fall to the lot of a junior. 
 
 His knowledge of law was varied and sound. He 
 possessed just as much eloquence as is, in the eyes of 
 an English jury, compatible with candour and honesty 
 of purpose. Hitherto he had progressed by reason of 
 energy and perseverance and the assistance of Mrs. 
 Ainslie. But now he felt that his career was ripe for 
 the arrival of luck; he was ready for luck; its advent 
 would not find him unprepared or inefficient. One
 
 21 
 
 single stroke of good fortune, and he might walk stead- 
 fastly on the highroad to a large junior-practice in 
 the King's Bench Division ; after that might follow a 
 silken gown, Parliament, and, perhaps, a great career. 
 
 These were hazardous prospects. He had no assur- 
 ance of the future. But in the present he possessed an 
 absorbing delight his absolute adoration of Gwen- 
 dolen. 
 
 Not only was his life ordered with strict method, but 
 until he had met Mrs. Ainslie he had firmly believed 
 that his heart was completely under control of his sense 
 of expediency. 
 
 He had up till then considered that, to conduct his 
 career with absolute satisfaction to himself, it must 
 be the work of his own hands and his own brain. He 
 had wished for no other help. 
 
 When his position should be assured, he would 
 marry; until such time he would regard the society of 
 women as a distraction, futile at best, and at worst 
 disastrous. 
 
 In this condition of mind he had three years ago 
 met Mrs. Ainslie, a woman moving in a phase of society 
 to which he was a stranger a woman surrounded by 
 all the graces and refinements of wealth that exercise 
 so strong a fascination over a poor man. 
 
 Almost at their first meeting they had found in 
 each other the natural and necessary complement of 
 their lives. 
 
 For three years there had been no disturbing element 
 in their affection. Each had loved the other with com- 
 plete surrender and complete confidence. In all mat- 
 ters of importance she was delighted to find that he 
 asked her advice, and it was a source of great pleasure 
 to him that her advice was so shrewd containing, as
 
 22 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 it did, a soothing flattery of himself, and a spur to 
 effort that should raise him still higher in her eyes. 
 
 With admirable adroitness she contrived to bring 
 his name to the notice of such solicitors as she met, 
 and, little as the reflection in truth pleased him, he 
 understood that he owed to her a very considerable por- 
 tion of the moderate success which he had hitherto 
 attained. 
 
 With this somewhat slight reservation, he was com- 
 pletely happy in his love, for he was in love with his 
 best friend. 
 
 Taking his latchkey out of his pocket, he opened a 
 drab door in Gloucester Terrace, which is, or is not, 
 Bayswater, according as you live, or do not live, there. 
 The tidy poverty of his home struck him in unpleas- 
 ant contrast to the picturesque affluence of Green 
 Street. 
 
 He went up to his room. On his mantelpiece he found 
 evidence of his mother's hands in the rearrangement 
 of the few ornaments and the note that she never 
 omitted to place there when he was dining out, asking 
 him, in case of his leaving the house early, to be sure 
 and come into her bedroom, and some slight message 
 of affection. 
 
 At eight o'clock the next morning he went down 
 to her bedroom. The old lady welcomed him with a 
 smile and a look of pride at the strong form and 
 the keen eyes of a man in perfect health, strenuous 
 for work. 
 
 With a thin hand she drew his head down to kiss 
 her cheek. It was a beautiful head that lay on the 
 pillow, a head with its clear-cut but somewhat weak 
 profile and high forehead suggestive of proud mater- 
 nity. Curtained about her face was luxuriant white
 
 A HOME IN BAYSWATER 23 
 
 hair. The hair was strong, like her son's, and in no 
 sense indicative of a worn-out frame. 
 
 Fifty-eight years old, she made no struggle against 
 the passage of time. Though of an age when many 
 another woman, the pseudo-woman of fashion, for 
 instance, is entering into her second girlhood, Lady 
 Meyville did not attempt to combine the fictitious 
 appearance of youth with the genuine signs of decay. 
 The art of being a graceful old lady is perhaps the 
 crowning success of a woman's life. 
 
 She was the widow of Sir Theodore Clifton Meyville, 
 who had been knighted for a mistake made by him in 
 Uganda. Many other functionaries of the Colonial 
 Office had obtained K.C.M.G.'s for mistakes only 
 slightly graver than his. A disappointed man, he died 
 at his residence in Gloucester Terrace, Hyde Park, 
 and left behind him Montague "Cliftonville," the emi- 
 nent actor, Richard, and Ethel. His children were 
 endowed with a considerable share of those good looks 
 which had enabled their father to reach a position 
 totally unfitted to his absolute incompetence. His life's 
 work left his widow in possession of an income of 
 250. 
 
 She asked her son a few questions about his engage- 
 ment of the night before. He answered, not altogether 
 easily, with the stereotyped alibi which it had always 
 been his practice to employ. 
 
 He had dined, he said, at the New University Club. 
 
 His frequent attendance at this institution was the 
 only point at which his mother came at all into con- 
 tact with his affection for Mrs. Ainslie, but it was never 
 without a feeling of uneasiness that Richard repeated 
 this necessary lie. 
 
 After a pause she spoke.
 
 24 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Richard, I want to speak to you about something." 
 
 The hesitation in her voice showed him that the topic 
 was one that she hated to broach, and, from the con- 
 fidence in which the two lived, he knew that the topic 
 must be of a financial nature. 
 
 With a tender smile, he patted her little waxen hand : 
 "I hope it is not very much, mother." 
 
 "Well, you see, the fact of the matter is this : Ethel 
 must go to Court." 
 
 "Good heavens, what for?" 
 
 He was astounded at so extravagant a proposition 
 from so evenly-balanced a woman. 
 
 "That is not your own idea." 
 
 A movement of her lips framed an affirmative answer 
 framed it as a sort of ashamed confession of weakness. 
 
 "I wish you would only act on your own ideas, 
 mother. They are always better than other people's." 
 
 "No, dear; it is only right that Ethel should be 
 presented." 
 
 "But," he argued, "we do not move in Court circles. 
 We are living in Bayswater. The King does not 
 require Ethel's presence in his entourage" 
 
 "But it gives her a certain position," persisted Lady 
 Meyville, conscious that she had a weak case. 
 
 "A position of what sort?" he asked. "The only 
 position it gives is to people who slip through the 
 Lord Chamberlain's office by the skin of their teeth. 
 If there is something against you, and the world of 
 fashion knows it, I daresay a presentation is a sort of 
 verdict of 'Not Guilty.' But if nothing is known of 
 you at all, you can always appear at Court. Is the 
 Lord Chamberlain to investigate the canards and scan- 
 dals of Tulse Hill and Peckham Rye and Ponder's 
 End?"
 
 A HOME IN BAYSWATER 25 
 
 "I knew what you would say," said his mother, "but 
 I should so much like to see Ethel in a drawing-room 
 dress." 
 
 "And have her photographed on a staircase with 
 a view of Windsor Castle in the background, and 
 a couple of columns out of perspective at each side! 
 What does it mean?" he repeated, walking about the 
 room. "It only means that the girl is not notorious, 
 and that the parents have money to throw away." 
 And then he said shortly, "Of course, it is merely a 
 question of money. If we had money, or if I had 
 money, you could do what you liked. We always get 
 the greatest pleasure out of our least sensible wishes." 
 
 "Never mind, dear, I daresay you're right," she 
 answered, as though closing the matter. 
 
 "How much would it cost?" he asked, prepared to 
 do his best. 
 
 "It could not be done for less than thirty guineas." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It is impossible. I simply haven't got the money. 
 Why not go to Montague?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't think that Montague can spare it. 
 He is so generous. I see by The Morning Post," 
 she said, "that he has given a hundred guineas to the 
 Lord Mayor's Fund. I don't think that we could 
 possibly ask Montague for it." 
 
 With a feeling of irritation tinged with contempt 
 Richard turned away. 
 
 "It seems strange that he can give a hundred 
 guineas to a charity, and cannot afford thirty for his 
 own sister." 
 
 "But," she pleaded, "Montague has so many calls 
 upon him." 
 
 "Oh, I know, I know. And the only calls he answers
 
 26 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 are those that are advertised in the newspapers. The 
 price of Ethel's dress will not appear in Green Room 
 Gossip." 
 
 "You have no right to say that," she cried, always 
 intolerant of any comment on her favourite son. 
 "You know Montague is working very hard to get his 
 knighthood, and his last two pieces have not been 
 successes. You cannot expect him to do any more 
 for us." 
 
 "Any more ? What has he ever done ? He gives you 
 tickets for his theatre when his piece is not doing 
 well. But you can't keep your house going on free 
 seats. Of course, he has got calls. But, then, what 
 does he want to play Hamlet for?" 
 
 "My dear, you cannot expect to be knighted if you 
 have not played Hamlet." 
 
 "I do not see why he wants to be knighted. You've 
 got Braythorpe blood in your veins, and a knighthood 
 would only put him on a level with the last Lord 
 Mayor and the next advertising brewer. Even Hebrew 
 financiers jib at being knighted now." Half-seriously 
 he added, "The ignominy of being knighted killed my 
 father." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear you speak like that." 
 
 "The greatest distinction a celebrated actor can have 
 is to be officially converted into a nonentity." 
 
 Conscious though the mother was of her eldest son's 
 limitations, yet she had schooled herself to believe with 
 the public that all shortcomings possessed by actors 
 are evidences of what is called the artistic tempera- 
 ment. She had not ignored his faults, but she 
 regarded them as part of his personality and as char- 
 acteristics of no little value to him in the profession 
 in which he shone.
 
 A HOME IN BAYSWATER 27 
 
 Glaring blemishes, exhibited by him in his capacity 
 as a son, she minimised as being the natural attributes, 
 of an actor. She was blinded, in a certain degree, by 
 the glamour of praise that Montague Cliftonville wore 
 as a halo round his handsome head. 
 
 With business-like directness, Richard, his hand on 
 his watch, said: 
 
 "It is out of the question for me to provide the 
 money. It is possible that Montague can do it. At 
 any rate, it is right that he should have the privi- 
 lege of " 
 
 With a humorous twinkle in her eye, Lady Meyville 
 supplied the word "refusing." 
 
 Richard answered as he moved to the door, "He has 
 no business to, but I will go to the theatre some time 
 to-day and give him the chance." 
 
 Then quite seriously his mother interjected, 
 
 "Oh, please do not say anything to worry him!" 
 
 After breakfast Richard went off to the Temple.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 
 
 AT four o'clock Richard was in his chambers at 
 Essex Court, having completed a short and unre- 
 munerative day's work. 
 
 There were no consultations fixed for that afternoon, 
 so he decided to go to the Pall Mall Theatre and see 
 his brother. As it was Wednesday, he knew there 
 would be a matinee. 
 
 While walking westwards along the Strand he over- 
 took Sir James Tufnell, the popular hanging judge. 
 Immensely tall, with a striding gait and wearing an 
 habitual and almost lethal frown, Sir James's was an 
 unmistakable figure. To his great pleasure, Richard 
 heard his name pronounced by the judge, who took 
 his arm. He complimented the young man on his 
 "success," and complained bitterly of the decadence of 
 the Bar since his day. It is a curious fact that many 
 judges have noticed that the total absence of ability 
 in the Bar (which no one deplores more than they) 
 synchronises with their own elevation to the Bench. 
 
 "By the bye, a charming woman was talking to me 
 about you the other night. She says you're the com- 
 ing man. How the devil does she know, eh?" 
 
 "Who was she, Sir James?" 
 
 "A Mrs. Ainslie, a beautiful woman with the profile 
 that the American man, Gibson, invented. Is she an 
 American ?"
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 29 
 
 "X'o. But all women who are handsome are sup- 
 posed to be American, in the same way that all men 
 who are successful are said to have Jewish blood in 
 their veins." 
 
 Sir James's features relaxed into a grim stare, the 
 nearest approach to a smile of which they were capable. 
 
 "That's right, Meyville. Be admired by beauty. 
 Do not admire it too much, and you will go far. Now 
 I shall take a hansom, and I will drive you to the 
 Carlton." 
 
 Richard was very pleased at being asked to drive 
 with the judge. 
 
 "I'm not going to the Athenaeum," Sir James said, 
 when they were in the cab. "I can't stand it. I went 
 into the card-room the other day, and it was like a 
 cripples' home nothing but octogenarians on scaf- 
 folding. Also, they are going to construct a special 
 lift for invalid chairs. Would you stand it? Xo." 
 
 It was a habit of his to ask violent questions and 
 supply indignant answers. 
 
 "Listen," he suddenly said, assuming his usual "The 
 sentence of the court is ..." frown. "Never give 
 advice. Numskulls at all hours of the day put absurd 
 propositions to lawyers. Send all numskulls to the 
 devil. Only last night, at a dinner-party, a dolt bored 
 me for an hour by giving me the history of an impos- 
 sible legal complication. I told him my opinion. And 
 then the dolt said he would consult his lawyer! Law- 
 yer! If you met a surgeon at dinner, would you ask 
 him then and there to operate for appendicitis? 
 Damned if you would." 
 
 The sinister old man prattled on. But for his ex- 
 traordinary fondness for depopulation, he would have 
 been a very pleasant companion.
 
 SO THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "There's another numskull," said he, as they passed 
 the Charing Cross Theatre. "That actor objects to 
 his theatre being called a place of business. The case 
 came before me. Good heavens, what are the actors com- 
 ing to? Clowning is an art, and, also, a profession ! It 
 can't be both. I suppose they'll call it a religion next. 
 Another fellow quite the best of 'em, too produced 
 Julius Ccesar. Not content with that, he adorned Lon- 
 don with an advertisement of a Roman coin bearing 
 the date B.C. 45. Do you suppose the Roman mint 
 knew of the coming of Christ and dated this coin 
 accordingly? I doubt it. By the bye, your brother 
 is a mountebank of some sort, isn't he?" 
 
 "My brother is Montague Cliftonville." 
 
 "Cut him off with a shilling. Your name's not 
 good enough for him. Good enough for a barrister, 
 not good enough for a barn-stormer ! Is that sense? 
 Far from it." 
 
 "He doesn't act in a barn," laughed Richard. "He's 
 just taken the lease of a new " 
 
 "Yes, I know, a huge Byzantine barn, confound him ! 
 Actors are like burglars: they always change their 
 names for business purposes. Do they or do they not? 
 Of course they do." 
 
 "It's very fortunate that some people change their 
 names." 
 
 "Fortunate? Why?" 
 
 "Otherwise everybody would be called Adam, which 
 would be confusing." 
 
 "That's no excuse," grunted the judge. 
 
 "You're very down on the stage, Sir James." 
 
 "Didn't you know that I married an actress? Thank 
 God, I've been a widower for forty years, but I haven't 
 got over it yet."
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 81 
 
 Richard made no defence. He knew that the judge 
 had been unhappy in his married life. 
 
 From his knowledge of actors he found it difficult 
 to make a convincing defence of the stage. He knew 
 that the stage was the Cinderella of the arts. He 
 knew that whenever things were slack in the jour- 
 nalistic world an attack would be made on the stage. 
 His position in discussing things theatrical was ren- 
 dered the more difficult owing to the conspicuous and 
 notorious vanity of his brother. He had never been 
 able to conceal from himself the fact that Montague 
 Cliftonville had made a sort of corner in vanity. But 
 Montague had introduced him to many actors who were 
 men of the world, and who, in the society of men of 
 the world, shone by reason of their ripe judgment and 
 shrewd intelligence. He appreciated, as perhaps few 
 people did appreciate, the struggle that had been made 
 by the superior class of actor to shake off the grotesque 
 glamour of ridiculous publicity which surrounded the 
 heads of certain charlatans of the stage. The earnest 
 actor, the brilliant actor, the actor deserving of sup- 
 port from the artistically-minded, did not write gro- 
 tesque letters to the papers; he did not lend himself 
 to advertisements of washes for the mouth or restorers 
 for the hair. He was every bit as much an artist in 
 his profession as was a Royal Academician or a King's 
 Counsel. The Barnum element introduced within the 
 last few years had brought contempt on an honour- 
 able profession struggling for recognition. But if an 
 artist turned his body into a hoarding for the adver- 
 tisement either of himself or of a patent medicine, he 
 ceased to be an artist. 
 
 Montague was a human hoarding. 
 
 "Sir James," he said, "in everybody who makes a
 
 82 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 success in life, from Cassar to Napoleon and may I 
 say it? you, there is always something theatrical in 
 the temperament. Unless you play to the gallery, the 
 gallery will never realise that you are playing." 
 
 Sir James threw a quick glance at him. 
 
 "And you are looking out for a gallery, are you? 
 Of course you are. And I hope you'll find it." 
 
 They alighted at the Carlton Club. Sir James 
 handed the cabman a shilling. 
 
 " 'Ere, what's this for?" 
 
 The judge raised his head and glowered at the man's 
 face. 
 
 "Beg pardon, mi Lord." 
 
 He drove away. 
 
 "That fellow's been in trouble. Everybody who's 
 been in trouble knows me." 
 
 With his hand in Richard's arm, Sir James walked 
 up the steps. A middle-aged man of semi-Semitic 
 appearance, in a tweed suit with a huge button-hole, 
 brushed past him. 
 
 "Who's that?" he asked severely of the commis- 
 sionaire. 
 
 "Mr. Fludyer-Seaton, Sir James." 
 
 "The Member?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Turning to Richard, he said: 
 
 "I believe that all our biggest criminals who are 
 not in gaol are in Parliament. If only these modern 
 financiers had a trades union they could pass a Bill 
 abolishing the criminal law. And that fellow is a mem- 
 ber of my club ! Thirty years ago I was the only 
 bounder in the place. Now the club is full of 'em. 
 Good day to you." 
 
 Sir James disappeared through the doors, and Rich-
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 33 
 
 ard crossed the street to M*. Cliftonville's superb 
 Byzantine Temple of Drama. 
 
 On reaching the stage door he found his way blocked 
 by a singularly handsome actor, who appeared only 
 in the last act of the play, and was asking for his 
 letters. 
 
 He received an envelope addressed in a female hand- 
 writing, which Richard unconsciously noticed. 
 
 Mr. Marradyne (for it was indeed he) opened it 
 carelessly, and then said with sorrow that had in it 
 almost a note of holy sadness, "Oh, these little women ! 
 What can one do with them, Judkins? They take the 
 life out of a fellow," and he moved on with his billet- 
 doux. He possessed sufficient culture to employ the 
 word billet-doux. 
 
 On Richard asking whether he could see Mr. Clifton- 
 ville, a wizened face appeared from a rabbit-hutch-like 
 opening, took stock of the new-comer, and demanded: 
 
 "Have you an appointment?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 It appeared that a new custodian, who knew not 
 Richard, had been installed in the place of the white- 
 bearded veteran to whom he was accustomed. 
 
 "Then it is impossible to see him absolutely impos- 
 sible to see him," repeated the crumpled little man with 
 all the pomposity of a War Office official intent on 
 impeding the business of the country. 
 
 The quaint self-importance of the stage-doorkeeper 
 amused Richard. 
 
 "You mean to say that it is beyond human power 
 for me to see the manager?" 
 
 "Absolutely. It can't be done." 
 
 "But supposing it were a matter of importance; 
 supposing that I had got a play with me?"
 
 34, THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 The stage-doorkeeper held up his hands in horror. 
 
 "Mr. Cliftonville's literary adviser is now in 
 America." 
 
 "And in the absence of his literary adviser he is 
 completely stranded, as it were? Is that it?" 
 
 "If you have got your play with you, you can leave 
 it here," he answered brusquely. 
 
 "No, I have not got a play with me. I was only 
 putting a case to you. But I am very anxious to see 
 Mr. Cliftonville." 
 
 "Didn't I tell you it couldn't be done, not without 
 an appointment? The thing can't be done." 
 
 "But supposing it were a matter of life and death?" 
 
 "You would have to make an appointment all the 
 same," answered the stage-doorkeeper wearily. 
 
 "Would it be any good taking up my card?" 
 
 "Not the slightest; not the slightest. If you want 
 a job you must 'write in,' the same as everybody else." 
 
 The clean-shaven face of his interrogator had con- 
 vinced the little man that he was an actor in search of 
 employment. 
 
 "Would you mind looking at my card first, and then 
 you can decide whether to send it up or not?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll look at your card right enough; but it 
 ain't no good, believe me." 
 
 Richard gave him a card, on which was printed, 
 "Mr. Richard Meyville, 10 Essex Court, Temple." 
 
 The stage-doorkeeper scanned it and said, almost 
 respectfully, "I thought you was a literary gent from 
 the first. What do you want pars or an interview? 
 What is the name of your paper?" 
 
 "Would you mind taking that card up, or sending 
 it up, or employing Mr. Cliftonville's dresser's assist- 
 ant to undertake the office?"
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 85 
 
 After a considerable number of formalities the card 
 was despatched; and in a few minutes the stage-door- 
 keeper's ear was struck by a shout : 
 
 " 'Ere, send the Guv'nor's brother up, and look 
 sharp about it." 
 
 As Richard was disappearing through the white- 
 washed passages, the little man muttered to himself: 
 
 "That's the first decent-looking relation I ever saw 
 a first-class actor have! Lor! I thought he was an 
 actor himself at first. I wish all these relations wouldn't 
 change their names." 
 
 Richard was shown into the ante-room of the popu- 
 lar actor's dressing-room. With a pleasing fantasy 
 it had been furnished like a Japanese tea-house. 
 
 After an interval of two or three minutes a delicate 
 vision of pink and silver entered the room. 
 
 Of all the parts that Montague had ever played, 
 in no one had he taken such pleasure as in the charac- 
 ter of Charles Stuart, the young Pretender. He had 
 never looked so superb, so graceful, or, incidentally, so 
 manly. 
 
 As the brothers stood face to face, the actor 
 appeared a glorified edition of the lawyer, a fact of 
 which he was pleasantly conscious. 
 
 "A good make-up, isn't it?" said he; with a lace- 
 ruffled hand he waved courteously to Richard. 
 
 As he approached him, the unbecoming light of day 
 which shone through the windows dispelled the illusion, 
 and, in his brother's eyes, the famous actor with his 
 frescoed face instantly became of the kindred of those 
 mountebanks who disport themselves at country fairs. 
 
 "I have only got a minute, Dick, old boy. What 
 can I do for you, eh?" he said, with a hearty breeziness 
 that he always assumed in the presence of men.
 
 36 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Oh, you hare got plenty of time for what I want; 
 it is only a cheque for 30." 
 
 "What, for some Barristers' Benevolent Fund, eh? 
 That is a good idea a good idea," he said reflectively. 
 "The Bar and the Stage is a more natural union than 
 the union of the Church and the. Stage. It's the same 
 line of Art, eh? the same line of Art. I was telling 
 the Solicitor-General the other day that he would have 
 made quite a decent actor but for his brogue." 
 
 The egoism of the man was so sincere that it was 
 scarcely ludicrous. 
 
 "No," said Richard, "it is not for that." 
 
 And then he explained the purpose for which the 
 money was required. 
 
 Montague strolled to the mantelpiece and assumed a 
 semi-Shakespearean attitude. 
 
 There were moments when his pose seemed delib- 
 erately to suggest "The Bard," over whom he had lost 
 so much of other people's money. He deliberately 
 turned his profile to his brother. Indeed, in refusing 
 favours it had always been his practice to give, in 
 the alternative, a certain slight dividend of perfect 
 beauty. 
 
 To actors applying for parts, to dramatists impor- 
 tunate for a hearing, to private applications for 
 trifling loans, he never refused his profile. 
 
 His brother watched him curiously. 
 
 "Mother is very anxious for the money." 
 
 "Yes, I know, I know. I am sure of it. But why 
 should I be worried? Can't you understand when one 
 is playing a part, eh when one is soul-engrossed 
 soul-engrossed is the right phrase one cannot be 
 bothered in this way?" 
 
 "Of course, if you're hard up "
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 87 
 
 The actor turned at the words, and resented them. 
 
 "Of course, I am not hard up; but my expenses are 
 so great. Now you haven't got any expenses ; why 
 don't you do it?" 
 
 "My dear Montague, I can't afford to have expenses. 
 All the money I get goes directly it comes, auto- 
 matically." 
 
 He did not explain that the bulk of it went to 
 Gloucester Terrace. 
 
 The assistant stage-manager entered the room 
 reverently, and said: 
 
 "Mr. Cliftonville, third act, please." 
 
 "Well, I will see what I can do. I will send for my 
 financial adviser, and let you know after the act. You 
 wait here, or, rather, I will take you into Marradyne's 
 dressing-room, and introduce you to him. You will 
 like him ; he is a wonderfully handsome fellow. He 
 will understudy me in the next piece, but he doesn't 
 know how to wear his clothes. Tell me what you think 
 of him." 
 
 Montague spoke as though the whole art of acting 
 consisted in the ability to wear clothes. 
 
 In the dressing-room Richard made the acquaintance 
 of the handsome young man who suffered from women, 
 and a younger actor who envied his occasions for suf- 
 fering. 
 
 Marradyne welcomed him heartily and with great 
 courtesy. He was making-up, and suggested that the 
 visitor should watch the process carefully. 
 
 While doing so, Richard caught sight of the alleged 
 letter from the fair admirer lying on the table ; the 
 handwriting was not to be mistaken, and the billet- 
 doux ran thus:
 
 38 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Messrs. Rowl and Berkeley, American Tailors. 
 
 To one gent's lounge suit 3 3 
 
 To one gent's fancy vest 8 6 
 
 3 11 6 
 
 Having completed the work of Art, the actor turned 
 round and said, "A blessing for me that I hardly have 
 to make-up at all! Some of the actors who make-up 
 handsome have really got faces like a sheet of paper. 
 They can paint anything on it, but it takes 'em hours 
 to do the painting; still, it is an advantage in one 
 way, because, do what I will, I can't disguise myself. 
 You would know me anywhere. It is a nuisance," he 
 added, with an air of intense anguish; "I shall never 
 be able to play anything but Romeo parts." 
 
 The specialty of the other actor consisted in coarse 
 language. He punctuated his conversation with un- 
 necessary adjectives and impossible adverbs, in the 
 same way that a halting barrister interjects "Gentle- 
 men of the jury" in his speeches. 
 
 Marradyne was evidently anxious to impress the 
 manager's brother. He said: 
 
 "I don't know if you have ever noticed that duchesses 
 always wear linen petticoats?" 
 
 "Really? You interest me. enormously ! Is that a 
 fact?" 
 
 The younger actor gazed with open-eyed envy. 
 
 "Is that a fact, really?" Richard repeated. "Do 
 you know it of your own knowledge, or has a Blue 
 Book been issued on the subject?" 
 
 There was something in his tone that was not pleas- 
 ing to Mr. Marradyne. 
 
 "Perhaps you do not move very much in the society 
 of duchesses," he shot out.
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 39 
 
 "Personally, I only know duchesses as I know the 
 Red Sea by reputation." 
 
 "I thought I had never seen you about anywhere. 
 You ought to go to some smart 'At Homes.' Then 
 you'd know." 
 
 Richard was amused at the calibre of mind so 
 proudly exhibited by this peculiar young man. It 
 seemed to him that actors possessed all the failings 
 of women, in addition to the more contemptible de- 
 fects of men, and attained a social tone denied to 
 either. 
 
 On those few occasions when he had mingled in the 
 intimate life of the theatre it had struck him as one 
 intolerable for any man with the instincts of a gen- 
 tleman ; it did not appear to him at all heroic that 
 his brother should have risen from the ranks of such 
 strange people to that position in which he took such 
 great pleasure and pride. 
 
 He tried to maintain an intelligent conversation with 
 Marradyne and the other until such time as Montague 
 should be free, but he found that when these two were 
 not talking about themselves, their agony was almost 
 physical. 
 
 He tried them with kindred arts, with painting, with 
 music, and with sculpture ; but it was of no avail. 
 Conversation came to a deadlock. 
 
 He took a bold course. He patted Marradyne on 
 the back. Said he: 
 
 "When are we going to see you in management?" 
 
 The move was a success. 
 
 The actor's eyes sparkled. 
 
 "Well, old chap, I would go into management to- 
 morrow if I could get a Romeo and Juliet of modern 
 life. But we have no dramatists who understand the
 
 40 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 actor. All they understand is the public. What do 
 they know about Art? By Art, the actor reveals him- 
 self; but he can't do it unless the dramatists help him. 
 If I want a coat, I don't go to a ready-made shop. 
 I go to Poole, and I say, 'Poole, my boy, here am I, 
 Vivian Marradyne. You know me. I know you. 
 Make me a frock-coat that fits me like a glove.' And 
 Poole does it every time. That is where tailors are 
 so superior to dramatists. The tailor gives you what 
 you want, and you supply the Art of wearing it. 
 Isn't that true, old boy?" 
 
 "Yes ; it is a great thought, finely expressed." 
 
 "You are quite sure you took my meaning?" asked 
 the actor. 
 
 At this moment Montague's valet summoned Rich- 
 ard. 
 
 As he was leaving, the younger actor stopped him 
 at the door. 
 
 "I should be awfully obliged if you would tell me 
 what the Governor really thinks of me in this piece. 
 He's said a lot of awfully nice things to fashionable 
 people, friends of mine, about me, but perhaps he would 
 tell you what he really thinks." 
 
 Richard, amused, answered: 
 
 "My brother and I never talk about theatrical mat- 
 ters. I don't understand them." 
 
 But the other persisted. 
 
 "You might just crab my scene. It's the prison 
 scene. I'm the jailer. You might just say, 'Harry 
 Coverdale seems to have fallen off a bit since he played 
 fourth Roman citizen with Wilson Barrett.' You might 
 say that." 
 
 "I should very much like to say that. Nothing 
 would please me more; but I never saw you play any
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 41 
 
 sort of citizen with Wilson Barrett. I never saw Wil- 
 son Barrett. I know there was such an institution. 
 He was the actor who made a corner in the Gospels, 
 wasn't he? Or was it Little Arthur's History of 
 England?" 
 
 "Oh, I thought everyone had seen me! Fourth 
 Roman citizen was my best part. Anyhow, you might 
 say that, you see, and then he would give you his real 
 opinion. Mind you, even if he said that my 'Jailer* is 
 not as perfect as my 'Fourth Citken,' I shouldn't be 
 cut up. As a matter of fact, I should know that it's 
 the badness of the part. Because, all things con- 
 sidered, this is the most perfect thing I've ever done. 
 And an artist naturally feels it when he is doing his 
 best work." 
 
 "My brother," answered Richard, "is so aware how 
 ignorant I am of the theatre that an exhaustive crit- 
 icism on the respective merits of your 'Jailer' and your 
 'Citizen' would be wasted on him." 
 
 As he left the room, Marradyne said to his friend: 
 
 "Devilish conceited fellow that, eh?" 
 
 And the other entirely agreed with him. 
 
 "Outside the profession," said he, "people are so 
 narrow-minded." 
 
 "Except, of course, in Society," answered the beloved 
 of women. 
 
 Montague received his brother in his dressing-room. 
 At that moment he was examining a speech written by 
 his oratorical adviser to be spoken next day at the 
 meeting of the Actors' Benevolent Fund. It contained 
 beautiful thoughts, beautifully expressed, to be deliv- 
 ered by a beautiful man. 
 
 "Good God," he said, "that will fetch 'em. But 
 you haven't brought in the Greek quotation I wanted.
 
 42 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 At any rate, see that it is handed to my press-agent 
 so that it gets to the evening papers in time." 
 
 The man bowed and withdrew, while the financial 
 adviser whispered to the principal. 
 
 Of all the advisers that Mr. Cliftonville found it 
 necessary to employ, the financial adviser produced on 
 the spectator the least suggestion of sound financial 
 status perhaps because, before obtaining his present 
 exalted position, he had been a somewhat unsuccessful 
 broker's man. 
 
 When the brothers were left alone, Richard found 
 himself facing the profile. He knew the worst. He 
 lost his temper. 
 
 "Good heavens !" he said, "can you do nothing with- 
 out advisers? You are being ruined by advice. I 
 believe you expressly charter incompetent people in 
 order to recommend the wrong thing. If a man is a 
 man, he can sometimes take the initiative himself. 
 Your instinct must have told you that your last four 
 plays would never succeed, and your stage-doorkeeper 
 is an imbecile. You are surrounded by broken pegs in 
 crumbling holes." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked the actor, surprised. 
 "This is the greatest triumph that I have ever 
 had." 
 
 "You are on the stage longer than you have ever 
 been, if you mean that. But the play can't run. And 
 you know it. If you could be content to play parts 
 you're fitted for, you would be making a lot of money. 
 As it is, you're making straight for the Bankruptcy 
 Court." 
 
 The manager murmured something about Art. 
 
 "Oh, nonsense; don't talk to me about Art. Art 
 is only another name for advertisement. Let's come to
 
 THE PALL MALL THEATRE 43 
 
 the point. Mother wants 30, and you have gone 
 through some idiotic formalities with your financial 
 adviser. I suppose you've consulted him about a 
 family matter, and he has advised you not to 
 give the money to your mother. Has he, or has he 
 not?" 
 
 "I'm not accustomed to being spoken to like this." 
 
 The actor shrank under the indignation of his 
 brother. 
 
 He stammered something about it being awkward- 
 at any other time and so on. 
 
 He felt that there were words which would effectually 
 wipe out the affront, but the words had not been writ- 
 ten for him by his oratorical adviser, and they were 
 therefore not forthcoming. 
 
 Richard insisted. 
 
 "Write out the cheque." 
 
 "I can't now," he said; "my secretary has my 
 cheque-book." 
 
 "Great Scott!" roared Richard, "you have enough 
 formalities in this place to supply a Government 
 office." 
 
 In a great flutter, the other exclaimed: 
 
 "All matters of mere detail must be kept out of the 
 artist's life." 
 
 Pleased with the thought, he repeated it. 
 
 "But to-morrow," he added, "I will send off the 
 cheque." 
 
 His dresser entered the room. 
 
 "Good-bye, Richard. I have only kept you waiting 
 about in order to be sure that the money was really 
 necessary. God bless you, my boy," he said, conclud- 
 ing the interview with a wonderfully simulated affecta- 
 tion of almost nautical heartiness.
 
 44 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Mr. Cliftonville was always a gentleman on the 
 stage, and an actor off it. 
 
 From the words that he had overheard the dresser 
 circulated the report that Mr. Cliftonville suffered 
 from an impecunious brother, to whom he behaved with 
 great liberality.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A MOTHERS' MEETING 
 
 LADY MEYVILLE was "At Home" on the first and 
 second Thursday in the month. 
 
 To-day, in the drawing-room, were three ladies, the 
 most assiduous visitors at these afternoons. 
 
 Mrs. Paxton-Pryce, the mother of Gwendolen, was 
 a massive, fair woman, with a face like a dissipated 
 potato. 
 
 Of the same age as her hostess, she affected airs of 
 incredible youth. Though dressed in an outre style, 
 she had specialised in morality, and was regarded in 
 her circle as an expert a censorious expert in the 
 wickedness of Semi-Society, an environment to which 
 she was, indeed, a complete stranger. The fact that a 
 second cousin of hers had once figured in the Divorce 
 Court, as a sort of honorary co-respondent, had estab- 
 lished her moral position in Bayswater. As the mother 
 of "the beautiful Mrs. Ainslie," she was considered the 
 leading "Society" woman in the suburb. Incidentally, 
 too, she was regarded as an authority on the human 
 interior, chiefly by reason of the notoriously faulty 
 digestive apparatus of her son-in-law, Mr. Ainslie. 
 
 Mrs. Bolitho, in her particular clique, represented 
 Society in its higher form. Her generally acknowl- 
 edged claim was based on the fact that she had once 
 shaken hands at a Charity Bazaar with the Princess 
 of Salmon von Gluckstein. This chance meeting had
 
 46 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 altered the entire course of her life; she had, as it 
 were, amalgamated the Princess with herself. 
 
 She had ceased to have opinions ; but her conversa- 
 tion expressed those of the dear Princess. She could 
 hold her own in those cosy chats about confinements, 
 which are so popular at Bayswater and Surbiton tea- 
 tables. Her figure resembled an old-fashioned pen- 
 wiper, and her character was beyond reproach. She 
 was not a beautiful woman. Neither, indeed, was Mrs. 
 Pegram. 
 
 This lady was the wife of a small manufacturer of 
 chocolate-boxes (a decaying industry in this country), 
 and she lived at Smelhurst, an undesirable and almost 
 inaccessible township on the South Eastern Railway. 
 An angular woman, with a predatory nose, an unfor- 
 tunate colour scheme, and dank hair. She possessed 
 a taste in clothes that would surely make the angels 
 weep. The colours of her dress suggested a rainbow 
 that had gone mad. 
 
 She was the most regular of the attendants at Lady 
 Meyville's "At Homes." Every Thursday being rem- 
 nant day at Whiteley's, it was convenient for her to 
 drop into Gloucester Terrace, after a piratical raid on 
 the bargain-counters. She had a very keen instinct 
 for the impossible, and scraps of ribbon and silk that 
 were too glaring for Ashanti envoys or Zulu women 
 were eagerly snapped up and despatched to Smelhurst. 
 
 To these ladies "Whiteley's" was a sort of club. 
 There they met regularly in the morning, and discussed 
 the most recherche diseases of the moment, and the 
 little scandals that constituted the fashionable intelli- 
 gence of the neighbourhood. 
 
 Agog with excitement at the proposed presentation, 
 they were surrounding Ethel.
 
 A MOTHERS' MEETING 47 
 
 A tall, fair girl, she possessed in a modified form 
 the features of her family, with the exception of the 
 nose, Greek in the actor, aquiline in Richard. 
 
 Ethel's nose was delicately tip-tilted, and gave an 
 expression of almost American vivacity to a face which, 
 by reason of its high, broad brows, might have been 
 unbecomingly intellectual. Her hair, parted in the mid- 
 dle, rippled over her forehead, and was tied in an 
 apparently artless knot at the back of her neck. Yet 
 she did not suggest a flapper. 
 
 She could not afford to dress in anything like the 
 height of fashion, but she had the wonderful gift, less 
 rare among American than Englishwomen, of wearing 
 her clothes well. 
 
 Praise of Montague ran high, for Lady Meyville 
 had been only too pleased to explain that Ethel's pre- 
 sentation was due entirely to the spontaneous liberality 
 of her eldest son. 
 
 Mrs. Pegram was admiring his latest photograph. 
 The only expensive ornaments of the room were elab- 
 orate frames containing Montague's pictures. These, 
 in fact, were, with the exception of theatre tickets, the 
 sole support contributed by him to the household. 
 
 "And who will present dear Ethel?" asked Mrs. 
 Bolitho, "that is such an important matter." 
 
 Lady Meyville explained that that office would be 
 performed by Lady Griselda Braythorpe. 
 
 At the mention of this celebrated woman of fashion, 
 little Mrs. Pegram's breath came short. 
 
 "You really know her!" she exclaimed; "you know 
 her well enough to " 
 
 "Oh, yes, she is a cousin of mine." 
 
 "Really, but she never comes here! I should dote 
 upon meeting her."
 
 48 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 As a matter of fact, Lady Griselda, a good-hearted 
 and exceedingly considerate person, only went to Glou- 
 cester Terrace when she was sure of not encountering 
 the "Mothers' Meeting," as she called her somewhat 
 distant cousin's matronly friends. 
 
 She had heard descriptions of them from Lady Mey- 
 ville, descriptions that were humorous without being 
 caustic, and although she delighted in hearing of their 
 manners and customs, she had no wish to meet the 
 ladies in the flesh. 
 
 "I fancy," said Mrs. Bolitho, biting her nails (the 
 only form of manicure she practised), "that I have 
 met Lady Griselda socially in society." 
 
 A look of sheer surprise at this audacity appeared 
 in the eyes of Mrs. Paxton-Pryce a look that 
 demanded an explanation of so astounding a state- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Bolitho rose to the occasion: 
 
 "I think I must have met her with the Princess of 
 Salmon von Gluckstein. She is very well bred, is she 
 not?" 
 
 Mrs. Paxton-Pryce reassured her on that point, and 
 added : 
 
 "She is an intimate friend of my daughter's. I saw 
 in The Morning Post that she dined in Green Street the 
 other night." 
 
 The admission was unfortunate, because she had no 
 wish to confess that her knowledge of Gwendo- 
 len's movements was derived solely from the public 
 Press. 
 
 Soon after Mr. Ainslie's marriage he had found that 
 the society of his mother-in-law, indulged in to any 
 extent, would be fatal to his peace of mind. Her per- 
 petual prattle about servants and babies and butchers'
 
 A MOTHERS' MEETING 49 
 
 bills pained him. Further, the interest she took in his 
 frail body caused him all the anxiety of a new disease. 
 She had attempted to take him in hand, to interfere 
 with his internal economy. During long conversations, 
 she had endeavoured to get him to make a clean breast 
 of everything from which he had suffered, and let her 
 advise on the matter. 
 
 This he had resented. A neuromaniac on the subject 
 of his diseases, he was in her case unusually selfish 
 with regard to them. His eccentric internal mechan- 
 ism was the passion of his life. Such diligent study 
 had he devoted to his case that for years he had held 
 the opinion that any medical man would, compared to 
 himself, be an amateur on the matter. 
 
 He never consulted a specialist, or even a general 
 practitioner, and he was adamant on completing his 
 journey to the tomb without the assistance of Mrs. 
 Paxton-Pryce. Therefore it was that she and her 
 husband (whom she had skilfully reduced to the condi- 
 tion of a nonentity, especially in his own home), were 
 almost strangers to Green Street. 
 
 Hastily this lady added: 
 
 "You know poor Wilfred is such a great sufferer. 
 He does not take proper care of himself. I am per- 
 fectly sure that he shows symptoms of pseudo-spinal 
 catarrh. You know, my dear, that is quite the latest." 
 
 "Are there fashions in diseases?" queried Lady Mey- 
 ville with an amused smile. 
 
 "Oh, yes, my dear. Appendicitis is quite out of 
 date. They say that the operation has not fulfilled 
 expectations. I had a long talk with Mrs. Beaver in 
 the boot department ; no, it was the perfumery depart- 
 ment I am sure it was the perfumery. You know 
 Mrs. Beaver, don't you? Such a charming woman.
 
 50 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 She has just bought a new foulard. It is quite a 
 dream, but I don't think it suits her in the least. Well, 
 she was telling me " 
 
 Here followed a detailed description of a chaotic ail- 
 ment, given at great length and almost incredible in- 
 accuracy. Double dyspepsia and pleuro-meningitis 
 were freely mentioned. 
 
 One physical fantasy led to another, and the room 
 was animated by a contest in medical reminiscences. 
 
 Ethel and her mother simply provided the necessary 
 punctuation to excite the speakers, who were enjoying 
 themselves immensely. 
 
 The body is the most universally interesting subject 
 that exists, and the puritanical morality of these 
 women compelled them to take an interest in its 
 capacity for bearing pain. They had no delicacy, 
 scarcely common decency, in discussing the subject. 
 
 Suddenly the conversation changed. 
 
 With elephantine badinage, Mrs. Paxton-Pryce 
 turned to Ethel. 
 
 "Have you seen much of Mr. Brinstable lately?" 
 
 "I?" asked the girl, with her lips imperceptibly com- 
 pressed, and giving no signs of the pleasing titter that 
 Mrs. Paxton-Pryce so evidently expected. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you took an interest in him. Every 
 girl in the neighbourhood takes an interest in Mr. 
 Brinstable." 
 
 Mr. Brinstable was a very prominent figure in Bays- 
 water society. By means of effrontery and perse- 
 verance he had acquired almost the sole control of the 
 firm of Messrs. Venables, Hampton and Brinstable. 
 The senior partners, old men, who had built up this 
 eminently respectable solicitor's business had, little by 
 little and with entire confidence, left its direction in
 
 A MOTHERS' MEETING 51 
 
 the hands of the pushing and enterprising junior 
 partner. 
 
 Billy Brinstable was forty years of age. He pos- 
 sessed a handsome flat in Hyde Park Mansions. In- 
 deed, "Bayswater Billy" was regarded as one of the 
 most desirable partis in the neighbourhood. 
 
 There was scarcely a Bayswater matron who did not 
 hope to secure him as a son-in-law. At all dances his 
 presence was desired. And, hitherto, though several 
 of the prettiest local maidens had been spoken of 
 quasi-matrimonially in connection with him, yet he 
 had never actually proposed marriage to any one of 
 them. 
 
 Bayswater feared that Billy might seek an alliance 
 in some more fashionable portion of the metropolis. 
 So Bayswater strained every nerve to prevent an 
 occurrence which would be little short of a suburban 
 calamity. 
 
 It cannot be said that the girlhood of Bayswater 
 actually fought for him. Yet few presentable maidens 
 had neglected to sue for his hand. 
 
 He was not actually spoken of as "Bayswater Billy," 
 any more than Whiteley's is spoken of as "The Club." 
 But just as that emporium is the centre of the social 
 life of the district, so did William Augustus Brinstable 
 represent the spirit and aspirations of Bayswater. 
 His rough textured complexion resembled red blotting- 
 paper. But for his large waterfall moustache, he 
 would have looked very like his coachman. And when 
 the two were sitting side by side in his smart phaeton, 
 the bebuttonholed master seemed less like a gentleman 
 than the servant. One felt that the coachman should 
 have worn the moustache; that Billy should have 
 donned the cockade.
 
 52 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Lady Meyville smiled at the absurdity of an innuendo 
 connecting her daughter with this vulgarian. 
 
 "I doubt," she said, "whether any sane human being 
 could take an interest in Mr. Brinstable." 
 
 A glance that did not escape Mrs. Pegram passed 
 from the daughter to the mother. It was a short, 
 sharp glance of anxiety. But Lady Meyville did not 
 see it. 
 
 Mrs. Paxton-Pryce persisted. 
 
 "The other night I heard that you danced three 
 dances with him." 
 
 "Where was that?" asked Lady Meyville incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 "At the Mosensteins," Ethel answered with delib- 
 eration. 
 
 Bayswater receives Jews discreetly, and accepts their 
 hospitality indiscriminately. 
 
 "Ethel ? You are joking, surely?" said Lady 
 Meyville. 
 
 "No, I am not joking;" and then suddenly, quite 
 calmly, she added: 
 
 "I am engaged to Mr. Brinstable." 
 
 Then there was a hubbub. 
 
 Mrs. Pegram flew to embrace her. Here, indeed, 
 was an item of society news to carry back to Smel- 
 hurst ! 
 
 Questions were showered upon the girl, questions as 
 to the proposal and how it was made, and how happy 
 she felt, and when it was to be. They remained un- 
 answered, while the girl stared at her mother, who 
 was pale, and made no sign. 
 
 This thunderclap the idea of a union between her 
 daughter and this blatant man seemed to have para- 
 lysed her.
 
 A MOTHERS' MEETING 53 
 
 The other ladies were delighted. Bayswater had 
 triumphed. 
 
 Mrs. Pegram regarded Smelhurst as a sort of colony 
 of Bayswater. Immediately her thoughts turned in 
 the direction of a cheap and useless wedding present. 
 Perhaps a beautifully bound copy of How to be Happy 
 though Horrid. 
 
 Mrs. Bolitho hoped the marriage would take place 
 soon, because, she said, the Princess of Salmon von 
 Gluckstein was in favour of short engagements. She 
 even went so far in her enthusiasm as to promise the 
 Princess's presence at the wedding. 
 
 "At any rate, you can have her among 'the list of 
 those invited.' That sort of thing looks so well in the 
 papers," she said, with an unbecoming smile of worldly 
 wisdom. 
 
 Full of news, the ladies went their ways to publish it. 
 
 When they had gone, Ethel threw herself into her 
 mother's arms in a passion of deep sobs. 
 
 Half an hour later she left the room. 
 
 A broken voice came from the sofa: 
 
 "Montague will be very disappointed."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BAYSWATER BILLY 
 
 JUBILANTLY high-spirited, Richard went home to 
 dinner. 
 
 On his face was the triumphant look of a man who 
 is assured of immediate success. He seized the slight 
 figure of his mother in his arms, and covered the pale 
 cheeks with kisses. He looked down tenderly into her 
 face as he held it in his hands. 
 
 "They are terrible people, mother, revolting people ! 
 But I am briefed for the defence, and I shall get them 
 off." 
 
 Vaguely she asked, "Whom are you going to defend, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Ah, you haven't read the case," he answered, "but 
 everybody is talking about it. Of course, my dear, all 
 horrible things in this world pass you by. You have 
 got troubles enough, mother. I am glad that you are 
 spared the monstrous. But this is the turning-point 
 in my life." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "Mind, mother, it is a certainty. I am not raising 
 false hopes. As sure as I am kissing you again and 
 again, within a month my name will be made, my for- 
 tune will be made, and you shall have everything you 
 want. No more horrible economy. You shall not have 
 a care in the world if I can help it." 
 
 In spite of her trouble, some infinitesimal portion of
 
 BAYSWATER BILLY 55 
 
 the happiness that gleamed in his eyes was reflected 
 in hers. 
 
 Rapidly he explained to her that Durham, the 
 criminal solicitor, had come down to chambers that 
 morning and offered him the defence; that after three 
 hours' hard work and consultation he had decided on a 
 course which should render conviction impossible. 
 England would be startled. The moral guilt of the 
 prisoners had been completely proved in the police 
 court. The public would believe that their acquittal 
 was due to the brilliance of the advocate rather than 
 to the peculiar condition of the law. 
 
 She interspersed words of callous congratulation, to 
 which, in his engrossment, he hardly listened. 
 
 He gathered from her that Ethel was not well had 
 a bad headache and would not appear at dinner. 
 
 During the meal she talked laboriously; she talked 
 of trivial things, and then, when the parlour-maid had 
 left the room, she told him that Ethel was engaged to 
 Mr. Brinstable. 
 
 "What! Not Brinstable the solicitor!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The vulgar man with the red face and the misfit 
 moustache !" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 In utter astonishment he exclaimed: 
 
 "Is Ethel out of her mind?" 
 
 "Ethel has chosen for herself," said his mother. 
 
 "Well, I forbid the engagement. That is all I have 
 to say. You don't approve, surely?" 
 
 She seemed to be staring far away. 
 
 He waited for some explanation, for some panegyric 
 on unsuspected merits in William Brinstable, but she 
 said nothing.
 
 56 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 It seemed to him incredible that his sister, a girl of 
 intellect and intelligence, the perpetual companion of 
 his mother, his own firm friend, should possess a side 
 to her individuality of which he was entirely ignorant. 
 He could not conceive that any portion of her brain 
 was so disorganised as to dominate her judgment and 
 inspire love for this impossible man. 
 
 The demeanour of his mother, and his knowledge of 
 his sister, drove him irresistibly to the impression that 
 the girl was marrying for money. 
 
 Even had Brinstable been a millionaire, he would 
 have vetoed the marriage for what that veto was worth. 
 
 His knowledge of the world showed him that Ethel 
 would be buying money at far too high a price. 
 
 On the facts before him he interpreted the situation 
 in this way. 
 
 Ethel had been deceived by the coarse glamour of 
 the man. She had stifled her natural horror of his 
 personality in the hope of ameliorating the poor little 
 household in Gloucester Terrace. She was willing to 
 sacrifice herself. His heart bled for her. 
 
 There was no other solution of the matter. She 
 could not love Brinstable. She could not even like him. 
 
 And yet he knew that this coarse man exercised some 
 mysterious, inexplicable influence over women, an influ- 
 ence incomprehensible to a masculine mind. Often, he 
 remembered, girls' eyes had shot glances of admiration 
 at Billy. It might be that the solicitor possessed some 
 good, some alluring points. But had the giddy, gig- 
 gling Bayswater girls sufficient perspicacity to detect 
 them? He doubted it. 
 
 As he looked at his mother's evident uneasiness, it 
 seemed to him that she understood the situation in its 
 entirety.
 
 BAYSWATER BILLY 57 
 
 He ceased playing with the apple-peel on his plate, 
 rose, and stood by her side. 
 
 "We must not let her do this," he said. 
 
 "Richard, you don't understand. I have been in the 
 world a little longer than you." 
 
 This invalid claim to wisdom she had never hitherto 
 pressed. 
 
 "I am an old woman, Richard, and I know Ethel 
 better even perhaps than I know you, and 
 
 "You are not going to suggest that there is any 
 possibility of these two being happy together?" 
 
 "I don't see why they shouldn't get on," she urged 
 in a half-hearted, unconvincing tone. 
 
 "I will tell you why they will not get on," he 
 answered firmly, "because she is a lady, and he is not a 
 gentleman." 
 
 To his intense surprise her answer was : 
 
 "He's a rich man." 
 
 She had always been proud of her family, not alto- 
 gether undistinguished, though in no sense eminent. 
 He failed to understand the statement of defence that 
 she flung, almost arrogantly, in his face. 
 
 "Then you will let her marry for money?" 
 
 "My dear Richard," she replied, "you don't realise 
 what poverty is. You haven't enough pride." 
 
 She, to his thinking, was laying down a contradic- 
 tion in terms. 
 
 She continued earnestly: 
 
 "Look at this house. It all wants re-papering. I 
 need an extra servant. Is a girl like that to go about 
 in cleaned gloves, to wear half-guinea toques? Mr. 
 Brinstable is her only chance. I've thought of all the 
 young men we know and there are very few of them." 
 Then she shot an arrow at him. "You never bring any
 
 58 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 young men to the house. You're always at the club. 
 How can she, dressed as she is, living as we do, hope 
 to marry anything better than a stockbroker's clerk?" 
 
 Through his lips came a slight whistle. 
 
 She flared up at it. 
 
 "Is any man likely to marry the sister of a man 
 living as you live? Everybody knows about you and 
 Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 His voice trembled as he tried to control his anger at 
 this purely Bayswaterian sentiment. 
 
 "If my sister is compelled to marry a man like that 
 because of me I'm very sorry. That's all." 
 
 "You should have thought of that before." 
 
 "I've nothing more to say." 
 
 "Naturally not, Richard! Montague, the head of 
 the family, will undoubtedly approve."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 
 
 AT 11 o'clock next morning, Montague rose in his 
 flat in Park Place, St. James's. His temper was bad. 
 The papers had not been satisfactory. In the eight 
 morning journals which he regularly cast his eye over 
 in bed only once or twice had his eye caught sight of 
 his own name. 
 
 With great annoyance he had read in the Daily Mail 
 that Mr. "Willie" Samuel had been riding in the Park, 
 and that Mr. Maurice Murior had given "a luncheon 
 party at Claridge's, and that amongst those present 
 were Lady Pamela 1'Estocq and Lady Feo Clarke, one 
 of the most beautiful of the season's debutantes" 
 
 Of his own movements nothing was said. Now the 
 two other actors mentioned were neck and neck with 
 him in the race for the knighthood that was the aristo- 
 cratic goal of their artistic careers. 
 
 In addition to all this, considerable prominence was 
 given to the statement that Mr. Richard Meyville, 
 "brother of the well-known actor, Mr. Cliftonville," 
 was to defend the Yoghi and Priscilla at the forthcom- 
 ing sessions at the Old Bailey. 
 
 This was very annoying. The fact that Richard's 
 clients had brought the actor a certain unexpected 
 publicity did not console him. 
 
 Surely Royalty would not look with favour on an 
 actor whose brother was mixed up in so revolting a 
 
 case
 
 60 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Samuel and Murior were forging ahead. At all 
 hazards he would himself ride in the Park to-morrow. 
 But what else could be done? 
 
 Richard must be prevented from standing in the way 
 of the family. (The family, to Mr. Cliftonville, was 
 personified in himself.) 
 
 Though, at best, he could only be called the figure- 
 head, yet there were moments when he regarded him- 
 self as the entire ship the ship of which the figure- 
 head was, however, the major part. 
 
 He sent his valet out with a telegram summoning 
 Richard to the theatre. 
 
 Having breakfasted, he left his chambers and walked 
 slowly down St. James's Street. 
 
 In spite of his irritation, he was pleased with his 
 appearance, especially with the sheen on his "wonder- 
 ful silver hair," as the papers loved to call it. His hat 
 was conspicuously shiny. It was, in fact, an eminent 
 hat, a hat of peculiar construction, a hat such as could 
 only be worn by an eminent man. But so subtly 
 designed were its curves that even commonplace fea- 
 tures would have looked eminent beneath it. The only 
 thing that could be said against his fur-trimmed coat 
 was that it looked too warm for the weather. 
 
 There was something hierarchic about him. Indeed, 
 Montague, as he strutted along, presented the appear- 
 ance of a sporting Cardinal. 
 
 Eagerly, as was his wont, he scanned the passers-by 
 to detect the look of surprised awe that is the due of a 
 celebrity. 
 
 One man, on catching sight of him, identified him 
 to the lady on his arm. 
 
 "There is Mr. Cliftonville, the actor," he said, and 
 the lady seemed pleased.
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 61 
 
 Another passer-by, realising that he was in the pres- 
 ence of a figure built on beautiful lines, explained the 
 matter thus: 
 
 "By Jove, that is Beerbohm Tree, the actor." 
 
 A shade of unwarranted annoyance passed over 
 Montague's face. 
 
 When he reached the theatre he was surprised and 
 pained to find that Richard had not arrived, but 
 instead of his brother he found a laconic telegram, 
 "Busy ; come here to my chambers at four Richard." 
 It ruffled the actor considerably. 
 
 So he was to be at the beck and call of this defender 
 of the Yoghi, was he? 
 
 Two days before, this young brother of his had 
 browbeaten him in his own theatre. He had even 
 extorted the promise of a cheque. There was some 
 consolation in the fact that he, Montague, had hitherto 
 forgotten to remember about the cheque. But he now 
 firmly made up his mind that he would never send it. 
 While looking at his reflection in the shop windows he 
 caught sight of Lord Lashbridge. This man (like 
 himself) had all the external attributes of the truly 
 great. The third marquess, a gentleman of considera- 
 ble culture, a shrewd critic of the arts and of men, had, 
 owing to his eccentric politics, never reached any more 
 remarkable eminence than a Mastership of the Ante- 
 Chamber. He had introduced into this country the 
 works of many French painters. He had drawn atten- 
 tion to the works of certain English writers hitherto 
 unknown. He was also an expert in the lost art of mili- 
 tary strategy. Had he not been a peer he would surely 
 have been a great man. But at the age of fifty he was 
 content to be merely happy. 
 
 Having failed to be great in a conspicuous manner,
 
 62 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 he took a deep interest in the minor things of life. 
 The education of his beautiful daughter, Lady Pamela 
 1'Estocq, had absorbed much of his time. He devoted 
 considerable attention to his clothes, which were always 
 very much too large for him. Also, he was a Grand 
 Officer of the Legion of Honour, and the chairman of 
 the Great Southern Railway. 
 
 His works on military manoeuvres, unknown in this 
 country, were text-books in Germany, France, and 
 Japan. It was his proudest boast that he was a com- 
 plete insular failure. 
 
 On this occasion he wore a white hat with a black 
 band, a huge flapping grey coat, and in his immense 
 white satin stock was a large pink pearl surrounded 
 by small black opals. 
 
 "I congratulate you," he said, as he put a rough, 
 yellow glove on Montague's shoulder. 
 
 "You have seen the piece? It's a good piece," an- 
 swered the actor modestly, in anticipation of a per- 
 sonal compliment. 
 
 "No, I haven't," said Lashbridge in a musical voice, 
 one of his greatest charms. He was delighted to meet 
 Montague, whose vanity always amused him. "I pre- 
 fer to see actors off the stage. They interest me more. 
 The illusion is destroyed when I see an actor actually 
 acting. You know I have taken a great interest in the 
 Labour question. To see the labourer at work gives 
 me no idea of the true condition of his life. I must 
 see him at home or in Parliament to form a judg- 
 ment." 
 
 "But the actor is not a workman," protested Mr. 
 Cliftonville. 
 
 "I should say that everyone who works is a work- 
 man. And it seems to me the proudest title that a
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 63 
 
 man can own. No. I am congratulating you on your 
 brother. I see that this extraordinarily clever young 
 barrister, Richard Meyville, is your brother. I hap- 
 pened to be in the Law Courts the other day, and I 
 heard him. Excellent. The man talks sound sense. 
 And, what is more, he talks it in good English. I 
 congratulate you most heartily." 
 
 Then he passed on. 
 
 Richard was becoming somewhat of a nuisance to 
 Montague. 
 
 On reaching his theatre the actor after a few 
 moments' deep thought in the office called for his 
 Press agent, to whom he handed a piece of paper on 
 which he had written these words: 
 
 "Mr. Montague Cliftonville, looking handsomer than 
 ever, was talking to Lord Lashbridge in St. James's 
 Street yesterday morning." 
 
 "Have that typewritten, and take it yourself to The 
 Planet. It must come out in the 'Creme de la Creme 1 
 column. Mind there is no mistake about it. The other 
 day they altered a paragraph of mine and made it 
 absurd. Instead of saying that / was riding with the 
 Duke of Liverpool, they said that the Duke was riding 
 with me. That sort of thing does me a lot of harm 
 in Society." 
 
 "Yes, governor." 
 
 "I suppose that in the theatre you do not allude to 
 rne as 'the governor,' do you?" 
 
 "Oh, no. We call you 'the chief.' " 
 
 "Quite right. Irving used always to be called 'the 
 chief.' " 
 
 He was pleased to find that a rehearsal of one 
 of his provincial companies was taking place on the 
 stage. .
 
 64 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 He went down and spent half an hour acting all the 
 parts and explaining how totally incapable were the 
 actors whom he had engaged. 
 
 They were mostly provincial mummers who could 
 only act and could not dress. They spoke their lines 
 audibly. They could impersonate their characters 
 intelligently. But they would not shine in Semi-Soci- 
 ety. Therefore, Mr. Cliftonville had no need for them 
 in London, where he only engaged professional beau- 
 ties, male and female. 
 
 He explained to them kindly that the sole duty of 
 an actor was to look like a gentleman. (He was so 
 much of a gentleman that he was almost genteel, surely 
 a terrible thing to be.) He further described his early 
 struggles on the stage. 
 
 "My first appearance," he said, "was as the Ghost 
 in Hamlet. I began absolutely at the bottom of the 
 ladder. I played the Ghost at the Lyceum, and what 
 do you think the papers said? They said, 'Mr. Clif- 
 ton ville's Ghost is essentially a gentlemanlike ghost.' 
 Mind you, I was a mere beginner. That was ten years 
 ago. I realised that the ghost of Hamlet's father 
 was a gentleman first and a ghost afterwards. That 
 is a thing that no other actor had noticed." 
 
 The company listened with respectful incredulity. 
 They could not conceive that a man who had risen to 
 the heights of their profession should be so perfectly 
 inane. It was a well-known fact that his Ghost had 
 been a sort of mincing dandy suffering from anaemia. 
 
 "Rex," the eminent critic and caricaturist, had, in- 
 deed, used the word "gentlemanlike" in gentlemanlike 
 derision. 
 
 Having lunched at the Carlton grill-room, he 
 returned to the theatre and busied himself ostenta-
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 65 
 
 tiously with his various advisers in devising schemes 
 for not attending to business. 
 
 He refused to see a large number of persons on the 
 plea of pressure of work. He toyed with the illus- 
 trated papers, searching for paragraphs and pictures 
 of himself. 
 
 In The Phoenix he found a poem which annoyed him 
 intensely. 
 
 THE PERSEVERING PLAYWRIGHT 
 
 He was a dramatist whose name 
 
 Will always be unknown to Fame 
 
 One of the very, very few 
 
 Who are not mentioned in "Who's Who." 
 
 He had, with quite consummate tact 
 
 Elaborated, act by act, 
 
 A play of great dramatic worth, 
 
 With problems, sin and wholesome mirth, 
 
 Upon a squalid murder he 
 Had built a fane of chivalry, 
 'Mid clash of steel and roar of guns 
 Relieved with admirable puns. 
 
 Each thinking man will surely say, 
 "By Jove, I'd like to see that play! 
 It seems too splendid to be true, 
 But if it is, egad, I'll boo!" 
 
 This author had a nervous dread 
 His masterpiece would not be read 
 By courteous managers, who might 
 With kindly condescension write:
 
 66 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "It pains me very much to say 
 That your extremely brilliant play 
 Is realty far too good for me, 
 Yours very truly, H. B.-T" 
 
 Or yet again, "This play is bad, 
 But send your next, and I'll be glad, 
 Young man, to read it by-and-by 
 Yours most sincerely, H. B. I" 
 
 "Dear Sir, The play you write about 
 Arrived when I was lunching out. 
 Most of my secretaries say 
 It will not suit. (Per pro) GEORGE A." 
 
 "My dear old fellow, it appears 
 That though I kept your play for years, 
 I've lost it now. So you are free, 
 To send it elsewhere. ARTHUR B." 
 
 "The public at the present day 
 
 Won't stand THREE strong parts in one play. 
 
 If you'll amalgamate the three 
 
 In one, I'll play it, MONTIE C." 
 
 "What did he do?" you aptly ask, 
 "How did this man attempt the task 
 Of getting managers to see 
 The merits of his comedy?" 
 
 He merely fixed upon a day 
 To hold an auction of his play, 
 And asked ALL managers to be 
 Prepared to hear it sharp at three. 
 
 And he who made the highest bid 
 
 Should have the play. That's what he did.
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 67 
 
 (And that is quite the fairest way 
 For managers to buy a play.) 
 
 He ordered cake and wine and tea, 
 Hop's ale, and other drinks (for he 
 Knew that the managerial brain 
 Is sometimes fired by dry champagne.) 
 
 He waited until half-past four, 
 But only one man crossed his door, 
 He heard the play, and HE ALONE 
 (His name was utterly unknown). 
 
 "I've heard your admirable prose," 
 The unknown said, "and I propose . . ." 
 The author smiled, "We shall not fail, 
 I trust, to bring about a sale." 
 
 "For moderate charges I'll purvey 
 
 All notices about your play. 
 
 I have as clients J. M. B., 
 
 And Captain M. and Sydney G. 
 
 You soon will rank with ARTHUR WING/// 
 So I will send you everything 
 That in the papers there may be 
 I'm a Press-Cutting Agency." 
 
 Evidently the "Montie C." was himself. 
 
 The Phoenix apparently intended to hold him up to 
 public ridicule. Surely this was libellous. 
 
 True, other managers were alluded to. He would 
 take up the cudgels on their behalf. 
 
 He therefore summoned his advertising adviser, and, 
 after a lengthy interview, instructed his legal adviser 
 to write a letter to The Phoenix demanding an apology,
 
 68 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 and a letter to The Era, explaining the whole matter 
 and containing a copy of the letter to The Phoenix. 
 
 Having taken these steps in the interest of Art, he 
 jumped into a taxicab and drove down to the Temple. 
 After ascending three flights of crazy stairs he found 
 himself in front of a door so covered with names that 
 it looked more like a piece of literature than any sort 
 of entrance. It was opened by Jubb, a shambling old 
 man, grey and faded, shrill of voice, untidy, and un- 
 intelligent. 
 
 Richard paid for a third share in his useless services : 
 and the clerk's utter incapacity had stood somewhat in 
 the way of his employers' success. 
 
 In a small room, scantily furnished, chiefly with 
 books and dust, the actor found his brother surrounded 
 by a mass of documents. 
 
 "Oh, for heaven's sake take off that fur coat," said 
 Richard, who, following the precedent of a great Lord 
 Chief Justice, detested this form of garment in his 
 chambers. 
 
 With a surprised stare Montague looked at him. 
 Richard's impertinence seemed superhuman. Yet he 
 had spoken as a man accustomed to be obeyed. For 
 the first time in his life the actor detected that he was 
 inferior in manhood to the barrister. 
 
 He took off his coat. Without it he felt incapable 
 of playing the part, the words of which he had impro- 
 vised in the cab. 
 
 Instead of immediately forbidding his brother to 
 proceed with the defence of the Yoghi, he began by 
 asking if they were all well at home. 
 
 As Richard looked at him, the conviction rose to 
 his mind that Montague had no part or lot in the 
 family, either in its joys or in its sorrows, that he
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 69 
 
 himself must bear on his shoulders the weight of all 
 responsibility in connection with his mother and sister. 
 
 "Yes," he said abruptly, "we are all well at home. 
 I do not think it will be necessary for you to send that 
 cheque." 
 
 "What cheque was that?" asked Montague, anxious, 
 as usual, to explain away neglect by suggested absence 
 of mind. 
 
 "We need not go into that, Montague. You prom- 
 ised to send mother a cheque for 30. You will be 
 pleased to hear that it is not needed. I will pay for 
 Ethel's dress." 
 
 Then, having finished with the subject, Richard 
 asked the reason of the interview. 
 
 "I hear that you are going to defend this Yoghi?" 
 
 "Yes, do you want to see the trial?" he inquired, 
 knowing that his brother often attended the Old Bailey 
 during sensational cases, "if so, I can work it for 
 
 you." 
 
 Assuming an air of great gravity, the other said: 
 
 "I think you are doing a very unwise thing. In 
 the first place, it is not the sort of case that it will 
 do you any good to be mixed up in. And, in the 
 second place, you are sure to be beaten. Of course, 
 you will get your name in the papers. But every sort 
 of advertisement is not good advertisement." 
 
 "My dear Montague, you must really allow me to be 
 the best judge of that not of advertisement in gen- 
 eral of course," he answered with a smile, "but of my 
 own business. I know I shall get an acquittal. Be- 
 sides, I have accepted the brief. I am going through 
 with it." 
 
 "Is that your final answer. 3 " 
 
 "Absolutely."
 
 70 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Montague tried another argument. He said: 
 
 "Your name will be all over the place, and Ethel 
 will be asked questions about it. You ought not to 
 bring this sort of thing into her life. You oughtn't, 
 really." 
 
 Richard was amused at his brother's palpable insin- 
 cerity, but he did not guess his real reason for moving 
 in the matter. 
 
 "By the way," he said, "I wish you would see that 
 your advertising manager or whoever it is does not 
 have me described, in chatty paragraphs, as your 
 brother." 
 
 There was no intentional insult in the younger man s 
 mind. 
 
 Montague blushed crimson. 
 
 "I don't understand what you mean." 
 
 "Any theatrical association connected with a bar- 
 rister is bad for him. You know an English jury dis- 
 likes the slightest suggestion of the histrionic. It 
 savours to them of clap-trap." 
 
 There was nothing more for Montague to say. He 
 felt sure that the knighthood argument would not 
 appeal to his brother. 
 
 Besides, with that craftiness which shallow in- 
 tellects mistake for diplomacy, he preferred to 
 give the untrue reason for anything he wished to 
 obtain. 
 
 As he was on the point of leaving, Richard suddenly 
 stopped him. 
 
 "By the bye, you haven't had time to write to mother 
 or to Ethel with regard to h|r engagement? What 
 do you think of it?" 
 
 Montague, with his hand on the door-knob, turned 
 blank eyes upon him.
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF A GREAT ACTOR 71 
 
 Impatiently Richard inquired: 
 
 "I suppose Ethel's letter to you didn't miscarry? I 
 understood she wrote to you." 
 
 The actor became reproachfully dignified. 
 
 "I do think," he said, "that any sister of mine 
 should consult me before becoming engaged." 
 
 Richard laughed: 
 
 "My dear Montague, you're so very busy!" 
 
 "I don't approve of any sister of mine becoming 
 engaged without consulting me." 
 
 He spoke as one who did not approve of anybody 
 becoming engaged except himself. 
 
 Richard turned over a page of his brief as he asked : 
 
 "I suppose you've taken the trouble to read the 
 letter?" 
 
 "Of course, yes. 
 
 Then, somewhat indignantly, he added: 
 
 "I don't think you treat me with proper respect. 
 I should naturally read any letter from my sister 
 in which she stated that she was engaged. But I ought 
 to have been told before. I shouldn't have been kept in 
 the dark." 
 
 Richard looked up from his papers, and succinctly 
 explained to Montague the suddenness of the whole 
 thing. 
 
 "You are the head of the family," he said. "What 
 do you think of it?" 
 
 "I think," he replied, toying with the golden knob of 
 his malacca stick, "that a sister of mine should have 
 done better much better. I could have introduced 
 her to people." 
 
 "Then why the dickens didn't you?" came from 
 Richard. 
 
 Cryptically the other replied:
 
 72 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "I have my Art to attend to. Ethel ought to have 
 done better." 
 
 So, in a really bad temper, he left Essex Court and 
 went back to his chambers, where he decided to engage 
 a new leading lady for his next production.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AN EMINENT MEDICAL MAN 
 
 AT six o'clock Richard had finished his day's work. 
 
 On the moment that he put aside his papers he was 
 faced by the idea of Ethel and her unfortunate engage- 
 ment. He left his chambers, and, nervously antagonis- 
 tic, walked westwards along the Strand. It was almost 
 a relief when he found himself in Brook Street, at the 
 door of Dr. Plagden. 
 
 The eminent ladies' specialist received him at once 
 cordially, almost deferentially. 
 
 Dr. Plagden's fine, benevolent head was set on the 
 massive shoulders of a short but athletic frame. The 
 white curly hair grew in thick clusters about his broad 
 forehead, making him almost suggest a human cauli- 
 flower. 
 
 His face was calculated to inspire confidence in him, 
 both as a man and as a doctor. Yet neither his 
 appearance nor his exquisite manners had been mainly 
 instrumental in procuring him his income of 8,000 a 
 year. 
 
 Bursts of childish laughter had risen from the con- 
 sulting-room as Richard approached it. And, on his 
 entrance, the doctor dismissed his five chubby chil- 
 dren, with whom he had been playing with boyish 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Richard was struck by the contrast between the 
 man's profession and his surroundings. 
 
 "I have come to ask you a favour," said he.
 
 74 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Instantly Plagden offered him a seat, and stated 
 that he was entirely at his service. 
 
 Whereupon the barrister placed before him several 
 complicated points of medical jurisprudence involved 
 in the case of the Yoghi and Priscilla. 
 
 Lucidly the specialist explained the matters. Fur- 
 thermore, he stated that Richard's clients were by no 
 means unusual examples of depravity. 
 
 "My dear sir," said the smiling old man, "in my 
 profession we are no more astounded at these things 
 than you are surprised when a man of good position 
 becomes, for no apparent reason let us say a forger. 
 These things happen. They cannot be accounted for." 
 
 Richard was on the point of leaving, profuse in his 
 thanks. 
 
 "No," said the other, "do not thank me. It is 
 entirely due to you that I occupy the position I now 
 hold." 
 
 "I don't quite follow." 
 
 Plagden became reminiscent. 
 
 "Six years ago, in spite of a life of hard work, I 
 had only scraped together an infinitesimal practice in 
 Maida Vale. It was then that I met you, at the 
 Westminster Police Court. Do you remember? You 
 were prosecuting a member of my profession in the 
 absence of your leader. I was a witness for the prose- 
 cution. Do you remember saying to me, 'What fools 
 these people are ! If they would only work in a secret 
 partnership, the law could never touch them! There 
 would never be any difficulty about the certificate of 
 death!' I thought over those words of yours. I went 
 into partnership, a secret partnership, with a brilliant 
 young fellow who had just left Guy's. All my capital 
 I invested in this house and in acquiring the surround-
 
 AN EMINENT MEDICAL MAN 75 
 
 ings of success. To the shadow, in time, came the 
 substance. To-day I am doing pretty well," he added, 
 with a benevolent smile. "I owe my success entirely to 
 you. So anything I can do for you in any way is a 
 great pleasure to me." 
 
 It was with a feeling of uneasiness that Richard 
 heard the man's story, for Plagden was one of the 
 most striking, distinctive figures in social life. His 
 name was notorious. His occupation was openly dis- 
 cussed. Many fashionable women were spoken of as 
 having suffered from "Plagdenitis." 
 
 His consulting-room was bare of the usual photo- 
 graphs of beautiful women. There were no mementoes 
 of gratitude to show that he ever attended lady 
 patients at all. 
 
 Even as Richard felt his hand in the strong palm of 
 the doctor he realised he was in the presence of a 
 man who had beyond question earned himself several 
 hundred years of penal servitude. But his thoughts 
 did not escape the quick perception of the other. 
 
 "I suppose you regard me as a villain," said he, 
 laughing. "I am not a hypocrite. But there are 
 many moments in my life when I look upon myself as 
 a philanthropist. Not only have I helped scores of 
 women, but I have saved many lives. But for me they 
 would have gone to nervous, impecunious, morphia- 
 saturated practitioners, shivering, while operating, at 
 the spectre of the Law. Agony and death would have 
 resulted. But, thanks to your advice, I, in perfect 
 health, beyond money cares, without fear of the grip of 
 the Law, have brought my practice to a point of 
 methodical accuracy that eliminates all element of 
 danger." 
 
 The laughter of the children heard on the stairs
 
 76 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 seemed in strange contrast to the statements that fell 
 from the father's lips. Plagden appeared to take no 
 little pride in his profession. 
 
 "You are a young man. You see, in the main, the 
 bright side of life. You see around you at dances, at 
 dinners, at theatres nothing but happy women. You 
 mingle with women who tell you solely of their triumphs 
 and their happiness. But every woman who comes into 
 this room leaves her mask at the door, and reveals to 
 me a face hideous with terror. From the depths of 
 despair I seize them, and I send them back into the 
 world. But only once, Meyville only once. And I 
 make this quite clear at their first visit. On a solitary 
 occasion only has a woman returned to me. In spite 
 of her threats of exposure, in spite of her tears, I 
 sent her away. She is the only one of my patients who 
 has died. I do not say," he continued, "that I am 
 making Society more moral. I am not Hercules to 
 cleanse that stable, and I suppose no man living but 
 myself has any idea what that stable is. I only see 
 the bad side. But it's a huge expanse of horror. I 
 could tell you stories of noble names that would make 
 you go out and commit suicide if you have any lin- 
 gering faith in humanity. 
 
 "And the strange thing is this," he continued, "the 
 revenge that Society takes upon me. Socially I do not 
 exist. I go into no home except as a professional 
 friend. My wife lives apart from other women. No 
 doctor, except my partner, will meet me in consulta- 
 tion, nor, indeed, anywhere else! They refuse to take 
 my eldest boy at Eton. But I am happy. Yes 
 strange though it may seem to you I am happy in 
 the love of my wife, who understands, and of my 
 children, who I trust will never know. Yes,
 
 AN EMINENT MEDICAL MAN 77 
 
 although I hold the inner secrets even of palaces, I have 
 scarcely a friend in the world; I have my debtors. 
 But I ought to be ashamed, I suppose, to say that I 
 am a wonderfully happy man. Good-bye, Meyville; I 
 am glad to hear that you are getting on so well in 
 your profession." 
 
 Bewildered, Richard went out into the street. The 
 law of expediency was the law of life. 
 
 He longed suddenly for the society of Mrs. Ainslie. 
 
 With a brisk step he turned towards Green Street. 
 
 It was half-past seven. Mrs. Ainslie would, no 
 doubt, be dressing for dinner. Still, he would see. 
 
 He was surprised to find how anxious he felt lest she 
 should not be at home. 
 
 Happily, she was at home, lying on the sofa in the 
 drawing-room white, green, and gold. She looked 
 tired. 
 
 A creamy pink silk tea-gown clung to her figure. 
 On his entrance a sparkle came into her eyes. All 
 symptoms of fatigue vanished in a glow of delighted 
 surprise. She took pleasure in showing, without any 
 trivial coquetry, the joy she felt at his arrival. 
 
 Heartily she said: 
 
 "This is fortunate ! I had a horrid, hot, dull day 
 at Raningham. Some wretched woman stole a chiffon 
 boa of mine from the chairs near the polo-ground. 
 Really, it is astonishing that one should have to pay a 
 subscription in order to move in the society of thieves. 
 I have had nothing but bad luck to-day until now. 
 We are not going out to dinner. You must stay and 
 dine. Wilfred is horribly ill. He has got some new
 
 78 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 symptoms, I think about fourteen, and he would like 
 to tell you about them. Then he will go out to the 
 club. He is always well enough to go out to the club." 
 
 She pressed his hand significantly. 
 
 "Have you any news?" she asked as she drew him to 
 the sofa. 
 
 "No," he said shortly. 
 
 "Yes, you have," she corrected. "I know you've got 
 news. I hoped it would be good news. But there's 
 something, Richard, in your face that tells me you're 
 worried about something. It can't be your sister's 
 engagement !" 
 
 "How the dickens did you know?" he asked. 
 
 He always tried, as far as was possible, to keep his 
 luxurious life brightened by the sun of Mrs. Ainslie 
 separate from the more or less squalid details of the 
 home in Gloucester Terrace. He was a butterfly try- 
 ing to shake off his chrysalis form. 
 
 "How did I know? My dear boy, my mother always 
 writes me all the gossip of Bayswater." 
 
 He shot a questioning glance at her. 
 
 "Why does Mrs. Paxton-Pryce take any interest in 
 me? She doesn't even know that I know you. But she 
 knows as much as is good for her to know." 
 
 Gwen laughed. 
 
 "Oh, I think she does, in an indefinite way. But she 
 doesn't know that we are well, I don't know what she 
 knows. But any item of news, such as the engagement 
 of a person I've never met, or the dismissal of a servant 
 I haven't seen, she always writes to me about. I admit 
 I don't always read the letters. But this time I caught 
 sight of your name, and I read about the happy 
 event." 
 
 "It isn't such a happy event as all that."
 
 AN EMINENT MEDICAL MAN 79 
 
 Clearly, he was not anxious to talk about the sub- 
 ject. He said, "I don't think they are suited to one 
 another." 
 
 "What married people are?" she inquired. "But I 
 suppose it will be all right." 
 
 Neither was she anxious to talk about the subject. 
 Gwen wanted him entirely and always to herself. Why 
 should he be interested in a mother, or a sister, or a 
 brother ! She ought to be, surely, his whole interest 
 in life. She dismissed the subject with a flippant 
 "Well, I hope she'll be happier in her second mar- 
 riage." Then she paused, looking at him through 
 half-closed eyes. 
 
 "But haven't you any good news? I have a sort of 
 feeling that good luck is coming your way." 
 
 "You have wonderful intuition," he answered, smil- 
 ing. "You seem to know everything about me." 
 
 "When one is in love one has intuition at least, 
 women have. What is your good news?" 
 
 "I'm going to defend the Yoghi," he replied. 
 
 She clapped her hands. 
 
 "So you did take my advice! You did go and see 
 some solicitor!" 
 
 "No," he answered, "Durham brought me the brief." 
 
 Then, suddenly, he said: 
 
 "I must be going. I've got to dine at home." 
 
 "Oh, no, no," she pleaded, "you must not desert me. 
 For five minutes I have known that you would be here 
 all the evening. You mustn't go away now." 
 
 The influence of her eyes brought him back to the 
 sofa. 
 
 Searching in his waistcoat pocket, she found a gold 
 cigarette case, a gift of her own. From it she took an 
 American cigarette for herself, and placed another
 
 80 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 between his lips. Having lighted it, she drew a long 
 breath and blew out a puff of smoke with a charmingly 
 fascinating movement of her mouth. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, your cigarettes are worse than ever. 
 But they remind me of you. When you are not here I 
 very often go into a cheap tobacconist's and say, 'Give 
 me the worst cigarettes in the world.' They always 
 answer, 'Madam, we do not keep bad cigarettes.' 'But 
 some cigarettes are worse than others,' I suggest, 
 'aren't they?' On 'that point we are at one. 'Then 
 give me the worst you have.' And they give me a few 
 cigarettes in a horrid cardboard box, and a great many 
 presents of different sorts, photographs of actresses 
 that one has never heard of, and tiny little cardboard 
 tunnels. Then I come back and revel in an orgy of 
 horrible tobacco, and then my Richard comes into the 
 room and takes me in his arms like this." 
 
 A smile of amusement came into his face while she 
 drew his arms towards her and placed them round her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Are you going away now?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I must," he answered irresolutely. 
 
 "No, you aren't," she persisted, "you are not, you 
 are not, you are not! And I will tell you why. You 
 owe me a great debt of gratitude." 
 
 "A debt of gratitude makes most of us bankrupt," 
 was his comment. 
 
 "But not you, Richard," she said, shaking her head. 
 "Don't you ask why? Have you no curiosity?" 
 
 "I don't think I have," he answered. 
 
 It is in her own drawing-room that a woman is most 
 certain of success. It is the battlefield that she has 
 herself prepared for her victories. He knew that she 
 would have her way.
 
 AN EMINENT MEDICAL MAN 81 
 
 "I'm afraid that in making you grateful I shall 
 make you a little disappointed. But I am going to 
 risk it I arranged with Durham that you should de- 
 fend the Yoghi and Priscilla. I guaranteed the money 
 for their defence." 
 
 "You!" he cried. Then, in admiration, he added, 
 "You are a wonderful woman !" 
 
 "I'm wonderfully in love," she explained. A curling 
 wave of smoke came from her lips. "Stay with me." 
 
 In the great as well as in the little things of life she 
 generally had her way.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE BEHAVIOUR OF BILLY 
 
 DURING the next few days Richard devoted himself 
 to work with extraordinary diligence. He toiled at the 
 details of his cases, and especially at the preparation 
 of the forthcoming defence at the Old Bailey. 
 
 He had schooled himself into the belief that Ethel's 
 engagement was a matter of Fate. He had found that 
 his veto possessed no force either with Ethel or his 
 mother. He tried to dismiss the matter from his mind. 
 
 He spent many hours in the Middle Temple Library 
 and in the Courts. He remained until late at his 
 chambers, returning to them after an early dinner in 
 the Hall. He succeeded in instilling into himself a 
 desire to work for work's sake. He pursued work with 
 the zeal of a religion and the enthusiasm of a vice. 
 During these days he saw little of Gwendolen. 
 
 He had, of course, congratulated Ethel with such 
 warmth as he could assume. But that amount had 
 chilled her. She had scarcely been able to keep back her 
 tears. 
 
 One morning, as he was finishing his breakfast with 
 her, she said suddenly: 
 
 "We can't go on like this, Richard." 
 
 Her eyes looked pleadingly towards him. 
 
 "How do you mean, old girl?" 
 
 This was the first occasion since the engagement that 
 he had spoken kindly to her. 
 
 "You must try to like Billy for my sake."
 
 THE BEHAVIOUR OF BILLY 83 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, after the manner of a 
 man prepared to do his best, against his better judg- 
 ment. 
 
 "Besides," she began. 
 
 "Besides what?" 
 
 She had prepared a tentative word or two in praise 
 of Billy. But now she felt that he would laugh at 
 her. 
 
 "Besides, he likes you very much, and " she felt 
 that she was striking a false note, "and he said he 
 would give you all his firm's work." 
 
 "The devil he did!" cried Richard. This put the 
 crowning touch to his disgust. 
 
 He strode about the room. Then he came back to 
 his sister, held her firmly by the arms, and looked into 
 her eyes, and when he had somewhat recovered from 
 his anger he said: 
 
 "You've done this for me, partly for me, at least." 
 
 "Oh, no, no !" she protested. 
 
 The affront was so outrageous that he felt he could 
 never look the man in the face. Brinstable had preyed 
 not only on his sister's poverty, but on his. It was 
 unbearable. Ethel sought for some explanation, that, 
 even though it should discredit her more hopelessly, 
 might place Brinstable in a better light. The search 
 was vain. 
 
 "Richard, I must tell you all." 
 
 "Can there be anything more to tell me?" he gasped. 
 
 "Yes," she answered with surprising calmness, speak- 
 ing very slowly. "There is the truth. He was very, 
 very kind. He knew how poor we are and oh, how 
 can I tell you?" 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "Well, you remember when I was staying with the
 
 84 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Mosensteins at Weybridge. We all played Bridge a 
 good deal, and I lost a lot of money. I didn't mean 
 to. But they played high; and at first I won, and 
 then I lost and lost. It seemed as though everyone 
 was making money, and I believed that I should also. 
 At last I found that I owed fifty pounds. I couldn't 
 sleep that night. I didn't know which way to turn. 
 And he was very kind." 
 
 "Why didn't you come to me to mother?" Richard 
 asked hoarsely. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, I knew you hadn't it to give. And 
 mother never has any money. You see it was so much !" 
 
 "I'd have found it if you'd only told me if you'd 
 only told me !" 
 
 "I did write to Montie, but he said he couldn't man- 
 age it." 
 
 "The brute!" hissed Richard. 
 
 "But he wrote me an awfully nice letter and said 
 how sorry he was." 
 
 "He did, did he? Typewritten, was it?" 
 
 "No, of course not," answered Ethel, instantly on 
 the defence of her favourite brother. 
 
 "Well, so Willy " 
 
 "Who's Willy?" 
 
 "Mr. Brinstable." 
 
 "Oh !" groaned Richard. 
 
 "Willy guessed what was the matter, and he was 
 very considerate, and said it was of no importance. 
 Mind you, he behaved quite like a gentleman" She 
 purposely emphasised the word in reply to his quick 
 glance. "Really, he is an awfully kind man, though 
 he is a little " 
 
 "I admit it But, thank God, he behaved like a 
 gentleman."
 
 THE BEHAVIOUR OF BILLY 85 
 
 "Don't make it too hard for me, Richard, please." 
 
 "No, bless you, darling." 
 
 Ethel breathed a deep sigh of relief. 
 
 "He was awfully nice about you. He said how 
 clever " 
 
 "Damn it, don't talk about me." 
 
 "Of course, you think very badly of him," she said 
 sadly, "but, believe me, Richard," and she spoke with 
 a pathetic look of enthusiasm, "he has many good 
 points." 
 
 "Let us hope so," he answered; "I shall be on the 
 look out for them." 
 
 It was as the result of this interview that William 
 Brinstable came to dinner at Gloucester Terrace a few 
 nights later, to meet Richard. 
 
 The ordeal in the little dining-room was awkward 
 for everyone except Billy. Lady Meyville, however, 
 directed the conversation on ordinary topics, talk- 
 ing chiefly about the dramatic enterprises of Mon- 
 tague. 
 
 Brinstable professed a sincere admiration for the 
 Art of his future brother-in-law. He said that many 
 of his clients were anxious to invest money in the Pall 
 Mall Theatre. Although he had not as yet the pleas- 
 ure of Montague's acquaintance, he expressed a great 
 desire to know him. 
 
 "Your son, Lady Meyville," said he, "is the ideal 
 gentleman on the stage. When you see him in any play 
 he seems to you rather a pal than a player." 
 
 Then he heaved with fat laughter. "That is pretty 
 good, eh 'rather a pal than a player.' I do not have 
 much time for moving in theatrical circles, but before 
 the New Lyric Club was closed I knew pretty well 
 everybody."
 
 86 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 And then followed a florid account of hilarious nights 
 spent with celebrated actors celebrated chiefly at the 
 New Lyric. 
 
 "But, of course, all that is over now," he added. 
 "I am going to settle down. I am going to bury the 
 past," and he roared with hilarity. 
 
 He was one of those men who regard the obvious as 
 amusing. 
 
 Towards Richard he adopted a patronising air, 
 encouraging, and, indeed, eulogistic. 
 
 Billy was tolerant about the cooking, he wa?s 
 officiously non-committal about the wine, and, alto- 
 gether, succeeded in reaching, in Richard's estimation, 
 a unique pinnacle of snobbishness. 
 
 In time the dinner wore to its end; and then, when 
 the women had left the room, Billy immediately offered 
 to put Richard in the way of getting some good port. 
 He even offered to send him in a dozen cases, as he 
 said, "It is a good thing to be able to offer your guests 
 a really sound glass of port." 
 
 To this proposal there was but one suitable answer, 
 to kick the man out of the house. But, such a course 
 being impracticable, Richard only nodded assent. 
 
 "Now, let us get to business," said Mr. Brinstable. 
 "Ethel and I do not believe in long engagements. We 
 are going to be married some time next month. And 
 I think the marriage ought to be rather a swell affair, 
 don't you? You know we cannot very well be married 
 from here. The house is very nice, and all that, but it 
 won't hold the people. Now, I propose taking a big 
 room at the Bayswater Palace Hotel, and being mar- 
 ried at St. Michael and All Sepulchres. Of course, I 
 will pay the exes." 
 
 The enthusiasm that he had expected was not forth-
 
 THE BEHAVIOUR OF BILLY 87 
 
 coming. Richard simply said that the idea was rea- 
 sonable. 
 
 "Reasonable, my boy!" replied Brinstable. "I call 
 it handsome, deuced handsome, and don't you forget 
 it. I daresay it seems to you an odd thing. But Billy 
 is blunt." 
 
 (It was his practice to allude to himself on very 
 special occasions in the third person.) 
 
 If there was one thing he plumed himself upon in a 
 degree second only to his vulgarity it was his excessive 
 bluntness. He regarded his bluntness as an excuse even 
 for his coarseness. He posed as a person in whom 
 there was no guile. He was compelled, by some uncon- 
 trollable natural force, to tell the truth on all occa- 
 sions, no matter how unpleasant to other persons or 
 even to himself the telling of such truth might be. 
 
 "The first time I saw your sister, I said to myself, 
 'Billy, that is the girl for you. She is refined. She 
 is delicate. She has got that deuced charm of manner, 
 that well-bred pose, that you want in a wife, Billy, my 
 boy. You are not in society yourself, because of your 
 bluntness. But, with a refined, smart girl like that, 
 you will end up on the top of Belgravia, and don't 
 make any mistake.' That is what I said to myself, 
 and further I added, 'If the girl has got any money, 
 so much the better for you, Billy, my boy. But, with 
 or without money, she must be Mrs. Bill,' and there it 
 is. Now your sister's looks and manners and refine- 
 ment are worth more to me than any amount of pounds, 
 shillings and pence, and if that is not love, ask me 
 another !" 
 
 The idea of anybody going to this individual for an 
 opinion on any one of the vital things of life struck 
 Richard as tragically comic.
 
 88 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 The absurdity of the idea swept away some of the 
 tragedy. 
 
 "You see, ours is a real good business. But we 
 want to enlarge it, want to spread it, want to get as 
 many of the fat things as we can. There are lots 
 of 'em going about now, I tell you. But you don't get 
 'em by sitting at the office. You don't get 'em by 
 sitting down and doing nothing." 
 
 A shudder ran down Richard's frame. He suspected 
 that the other man was about to propound the modern 
 system of bringing a business to disaster. 
 
 And, indeed, Brinstable explained that business was 
 carried on chiefly by the pursuit of pleasure, that 
 launches on the river, supper-parties at the Savoy, 
 motors at Ascot, were the sure means of increasing a 
 sound and remunerative business connection. 
 
 The game had been played so often and so disas- 
 trously that it appeared incredible that another player 
 should take a hand in it. 
 
 And yet with his confident gestures, Brinstable ex- 
 pounded the methods by which he proposed to extend 
 his business. With every detail that he described 
 Richard felt invited to look forward to inevitable 
 ruin. 
 
 He did not care to cross-examine him, because he 
 had no hope of eliciting any information of a reassur- 
 ing nature. 
 
 He shivered at the prospect. He felt the futility of 
 even trying to "hope for the best." 
 
 Billy's attitude at the dinner-table had convinced 
 Richard that his future brother-in-law looked upon him 
 as a negligible factor in the family affairs, that he 
 regarded him, in fact, as quite an amateur and casual 
 person. It was intolerable to play this part in the
 
 THE BEHAVIOUR OF BILLY 89 
 
 eyes of a man whom he thoroughly despised, even if 
 he did not actually hate him. 
 
 But the other seemed completely unsuspicious. 
 
 From his pocket-book he produced a newspaper cut- 
 ting. 
 
 "By the bye," he said, "have you seen this in the 
 Pall Mall to-night ?" and he handed it across the table. 
 
 Richard read: 
 
 "We have much pleasure in announcing the engage- 
 ment of Miss Meyville, the pretty sister of Mr. Clifton- 
 ville, the eminent actor, to Mr. William Brinstable, the 
 popular solicitor." 
 
 He handed the paper back. 
 
 "Montague never misses a chance," he said to himself. 
 
 "Now," Billy pointed out, "I am particularly anx- 
 ious to get in with Mr. Cliftonville, or Montie, as I 
 suppose I ought to call him. We can do one another 
 a bit of good give and take, you know. We must 
 fix up a little bit of supper one of these nights." 
 
 And other similar statements and suggestions he 
 made with characteristic bluntness. 
 
 At last, Richard, finding William beyond him, took 
 his future brother-in-law in to the drawing-room. 
 
 Throwing himself on the sofa by the side of his 
 fiancee, Mr. Brinstable told stories relative to his social 
 and financial shrewdness. As he proved his deliberate 
 conviction that there was no one like Billy for general 
 merit, the eyes of his three listeners were riveted on 
 the carpet. 
 
 At length, the bridegroom-elect felt that his per- 
 formance was complete, that he had impressed his 
 audience with the importance of his personality. More- 
 over, he grew hungry; he had not dined so sumptu- 
 ouslv as was his wont.
 
 90 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 On the plea of a supper at the Carlton with business 
 friends, a syndicate bringing out a new iron ore mine, 
 he took his leave. 
 
 Richard and his mother listened to the sound of 
 whispered words and hilarious laughter in the passage, 
 as Mr. Brinstable said good-bye to his betrothed. 
 
 Then that gentleman got into a hansom, and drove 
 to his club, bawling its name to the cabman. 
 
 His club was the Junior Constitutional.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE BEST CLERK IN THE TEMPLE 
 
 ETHEL, realising that Billy's appearance had been 
 a fiasco that neither her mother nor Richard was pre- 
 pared with anything in the nature of a complimentary 
 or even of a consolatory comment upon him decided 
 to retire to bed. 
 
 Nervously, Lady Meyville spoke: 
 
 "It was very kind of you, Richard, to leave that 
 thirty pounds for Ethel's dress. I know you can't 
 afford it." 
 
 "No, I'm not exactly affluent. I've got precisely r 
 2 10*. in the bank." 
 
 "My poor Richard! Oh, if I'd known things were 
 so bad as that, I wouldn't have let you do it." Lady 
 Meyville continued: "Montague was here to-day, and 
 he was delighted that Ethel was to be presented. He 
 seemed very pleased at the marriage. So that's a good 
 thing, isn't it? He doesn't exactly know Mr. Brin- 
 stable. But he said he'd heard he was a good sort. 
 Those were Montague's very words. And you know 
 how hard he is to please ! It seems that Mr. Brinstable 
 somehow I don't seem to be able to call him William 
 yet She did not finish her sentence. "But I 
 
 suppose I shall get accustomed to him. I'm an old 
 woman, and perhaps I'm rather foolish. Anyhow, it's a 
 comfort to know that Mr. Brinstable is very popular. 
 He goes everywhere in Bayswater. What we regard 
 as his commonness, other people consider cheery affa- 
 bility."
 
 92 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Perhaps Bayswater has overlooked his bluntness," 
 said Richard grimly. 
 
 "Of course, he's not handsome." 
 
 "He is revolting." 
 
 "I wouldn't say that," interposed his mother. 
 
 But Richard's indignation carried him on. 
 
 "The thing is impossible. The man is impossible. 
 There never has been such a person. He is overdrawn, 
 grotesque. He is a caricature of something I've 
 never had the bad luck to meet. Even as I looked at 
 him I said, 'This is a phantom. "Bayswater Billy" 
 is a thing that cannot exist either on earth or sea. 
 My good man, civilisation has never evolved a thing like 
 you. You are a lampoon on the English race. You 
 appear to be sitting there, but you are not. You are 
 as unreal as the Gorgon or Cacus, or any of the mon- 
 strosities that Ulysses baffled.' ' 
 
 Sadly Lady Meyville summed up the matter as she 
 kissed him good-night: 
 
 "We must make the best of it. Montague, I'm 
 afraid, is a little disappointed. But he was kind 
 enough not to show it." 
 
 Next morning Richard appeared on behalf of the 
 plaintiff before Mr. Justice Tufnell in a"running down" 
 action. He was "devilling" for a very busy common- 
 law barrister, and, except for the opening speech, he 
 had to do the entire case himself. With restless, but 
 effective, energy he threw himself into the cross-exam- 
 ination of witnesses. He appeared as a man whose 
 whole object in life was to procure justice for his client 
 in this particular action. After that, the heavens 
 might fall. The case was one in which the defendants, 
 the Amalgamated Motor Omnibus Company, should 
 have undoubtedly succeeded. But by means of the
 
 THE BEST CLERK IN THE TEMPLE 93 
 
 discreetly personal animus that he introduced in the 
 matter, by means of a judiciously melodramatic speech 
 to the jury he succeeded in keeping their minds open. 
 
 The summing-up of Mr. Justice Tufnell really 
 amounted to this : 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the case. 
 The plaintiff is a poor man. The defendants are a 
 rich company. If, after the brilliant speech made by 
 Mr. Meyville, you think that a thousand pounds is too 
 small an amount to award as compensation for these 
 injuries, say so. The matter lies with you." He, 
 however, omitted to mention his firm conviction that 
 every motorist was a murderer. 
 
 The jury returned a grotesque verdict of 1,500. 
 
 Soon after Richard had returned to his chambers, his 
 clerk asked if he could see Mr. Moseley. 
 
 "Who is Mr. Moseley?" 
 
 "He used to be clerk to Mr. Peploe." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know him. Good old John ! Is he hard 
 up?" 
 
 The clerk smothered laughter. 
 
 "Mr. Moseley hard up, sir? Why, he married twice 
 and married money each time. He is the richest 
 clerk in the Temple." 
 
 Richard endorsed his brief, and handed it to Jubb. 
 
 "Take that to Mr. Johnson's chambers. Show Mr. 
 Moseley in." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The clerk shambled out. 
 
 "Ugh ! what a room to work in !" said Richard, as 
 he looked at the threadbare carpet, worn from blue 
 to grey, the forty pounds' worth of law-books that 
 made a feeble show on the shelves, and the general air 
 of poverty in the place. Warm with the triumph of
 
 94 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 the morning, a sensation of chill seized him as he real- 
 ised the dull drabness of his surroundings. He looked 
 at himself in the glass above the mantelpiece. There 
 was a red line where his wig had pressed on his fore- 
 head. He had not troubled to brush his hair in the 
 robing-room at the Law Courts. His tie was askew. 
 
 "Hang it !" he commented, "I look over forty." 
 
 Then he sat down at the table and inspected the few 
 thin briefs that lay upon it. They were nearly all 
 other men's cases about three days' hard work, and 
 very little pay except experience. 
 
 Mr. Moseley, a rotund, middle-aged person, broad- 
 shouldered and heavily built, with a jovial face and 
 shrewd eyes his large, thick nostrils made his nose 
 seem shorter than it was he looked like a rural dean 
 in mufti, entered the room: 
 
 "Good-morning, sir." 
 
 "Good-morning, John. What can I do for you?" 
 
 "I've decided to come back to work." 
 
 "To work?" he asked, in surprise. "Haven't you 
 made a fortune?" 
 
 "I haven't done badly, sir. But the Temple is the 
 Temple. You can't get away from it. I was eight 
 years with Mr. Ulmack. Before that I was with Mr. 
 Banskin, K.C. You don't remember him, sir. When 
 I was ten I was junior clerk to Mr. Justice Wil- 
 braham, as he is now. And I can't somehow settle down 
 outside the old place." 
 
 His experience was a not uncommon one. There is 
 about the Temple something of the same fascination 
 that the Universities exercise on the undergraduate. 
 But Oxford and Cambridge are to us only stopping- 
 places on the road of life. A young man who begins 
 his career in the Temple works there till the day of
 
 THE BEST CLERK IN THE TEMPLE 95 
 
 his death. It is a citadel of romance in a city of 
 commerce. John Moseley had made in fees about 800 
 a year in the service of Theodore Ulmack, a fashion- 
 able "silk." Ulmack had died suddenly of heart trou- 
 ble, assisted by ill-digested success uninsured, having 
 saved nothing, and leaving a wife and family dependent 
 on the Barristers' Benevolent Association. Thereupon 
 John, a widower without children, retired from the 
 business and bought a villa at Chiswick. But the spell 
 of the Temple was upon him. One day he looked in 
 at the Law Courts to see his old friends. They were 
 delighted to meet him, for he was almost an institution, 
 known and respected by judges, law officers, and junior 
 counsel, regarded as the apotheosis of success by the 
 most juvenile of barristers' clerks, alert little fellows* 
 like boy messengers out of uniform. 
 
 His visits became more frequent, till at last he 
 attended regularly from the moment the Courts opened 
 until they closed. 
 
 "Who is the lucky man who has secured your serv- 
 ices?" asked Richard. 
 
 "Well, that is what I wanted to speak to you about. 
 I thought, perhaps, you might take me on, sir." 
 
 "I ! Good heavens !" Richard answered in astonish- 
 ment. "I don't make three hundred a year. I hardly 
 pay the ten guineas I guarantee Mr. Kendal's clerk 
 out of my fees." 
 
 "I know, sir. But for the last six months I've seen 
 you in Court, and, if I may say so, I admire your 
 work. I'm a bit of a sportsman myself, and, if I may 
 use the expression, I'll back you. You're bound to do 
 well." 
 
 A look of amused pride came into Richard's face. 
 This was a brilliant omen.
 
 96 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Yes," the clerk continued, speaking seriously, 
 almost with eagerness, "I've watched you, and I've 
 watched other men. Lots of them start well, with back- 
 ing and brains. They go up like rockets and then 
 suddenly they disappear, and you never hear of them 
 again. But you, sir if you will pardon me are 
 going to be a big success if you stick to it." 
 
 "Thank you, John; it's very kind of you. But, as 
 I've said, I can't afford you." 
 
 "May I sit down, sir?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 Earnestly and rapidly John spoke: 
 
 "All the solicitors I know, and I know them all all 
 the good ones ; and in the whole course of my career I 
 have never taken in a brief that hasn't been paid for 
 say that they can't get hold of a first-class common- 
 law junior. You're the man. I'm sure of it sure as 
 I sit here. If I was your clerk, I'd get you two thou- 
 sand a year without without standing a drink." 
 
 "But I've no money, no capital. I can't do it. I 
 only pay 25 a year for this room and a share in the 
 telephone. And there isn't accommodation in the place 
 for another clerk." 
 
 "You must move." 
 
 "Don't talk about it. It's a delightful prospect. 
 But it's not possible. In three years, perhaps." 
 
 "In three years' time the place may be taken. Now 
 is the chance." 
 
 "I see the chance, John, but I don't see the possi- 
 bility." 
 
 "May I explain it?" 
 
 "I wish you would." 
 
 "There's a good set of chambers on the ground floor 
 at No. 14 in this court," said John. "They want a
 
 THE BEST CLERK IN THE TEMPLE 97 
 
 hundred and twenty for it. Good airy room, good 
 clerk's room, and two waiting-rooms. You must have 
 two waiting-rooms." 
 
 "Why must I have two waiting-rooms?" 
 
 "Because there must always be someone waiting in 
 the room the client isn't shown into." 
 
 "I see," answered Richard, with a smile. 
 
 "Then a decent lot of law books will cost three 
 hundred pounds. Furniture and doing up, say a hun- 
 dred and fifty. If I were you, sir, I shouldn't have 
 Vanity Fair cartoons of judges. They're overdone. 
 I should have nothing but books and briefs. They 
 are the best furniture for a barrister's room. I could 
 pick up almost for nothing a library of showy, useless 
 books." 
 
 "I have no doubt your views are entirely accurate, 
 still " 
 
 John interposed: 
 
 "I propose, if you will allow me, to set you up in 
 these chambers within the next fortnight." 
 
 The proposition was startling. 
 
 In his astonishment Richard rose from his chair. 
 He gazed at the clerk as though questioning his sanity. 
 
 "Are you serious ?" 
 
 "Absolutely. And I am serious in guaranteeing you 
 two thousand pounds' worth of work before Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 "Why should you do this for me?" he asked, still 
 amazed at the unconventional proposition and the man- 
 ner in which it had been placed before him. 
 
 "First, because you are the best man that I can see. 
 A clerk's position is always a bit of a gamble. His 
 governor may die, or his work may drop off, or he may 
 take to drink or a thousand and one things may
 
 98 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 happen. For instance, he may make a mistake in his 
 marriage. Or, worse still, he may appear in the 
 Divorce Court. And that is the end of him. Besides, 
 I want to make money for a reason which I need not 
 enter into. There is only one way of making money 
 speculation. I propose to speculate in the only thing 
 I understand the profession. If you accept my 
 offer " 
 
 "I should pay you back, of course. But I can give 
 you no security." 
 
 Recognising his advantage, Moseley seized it. 
 
 "I don't want to be paid back. I want you to give 
 me double the ordinary clerk's fees for five years, and 
 then my remuneration shall be on the usual scale." 
 
 "Double fees might amount to well, to a great 
 deal of money if you were, so to speak, my impres- 
 sario." 
 
 "I hope so, I am sure, sir." 
 
 For a minute Richard looked hard at the clerk. 
 Then he said: 
 
 "I'll do it." 
 
 "I am very glad of it, sir. We shall be at Number 
 14 within a fortnight. We can give up this room at 
 once, even if we have to make a slight loss. We can 
 afford to do it." 
 
 Richard smiled at the use of the word "we." Already 
 Moseley regarded himself in the light of a partner. 
 
 As John was turning to leave, his eyes glanced 
 approvingly at a large stack of papers on a side-table. 
 
 "Excuse me, sir," he said, as he looked eagerly at 
 its bulk. His face fell when he saw it was the case 
 of the Yoghi and Priscilla. 
 
 "I think you're making a great mistake if I may 
 say so."
 
 THE BEST CLERK IN THE TEMPLE 99 
 
 "Of course you may say so. But why?" 
 
 "It can't do you any good. They're a dead case. 
 I hope you don't intend to have a row with the judge. 
 That sort of thing is played out. It never did a coun- 
 sel any good yet, not in the long run." 
 
 "I don't intend to have a row with anybody. I 
 intend to raise a point of law, and within half an hour 
 the prisoners will be discharged." 
 
 "Might I inquire what the point of law is?" Moseley 
 asked, somewhat sceptically. 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 Richard explained it. 
 
 The clerk thought for a minute. Then he said de- 
 cisively : 
 
 "No, sir. Fight the case for all it's worth. Cross- 
 examine every witness at great length. Spin it out for 
 a week or two weeks. Keep your name before the public. 
 Let them read about you at breakfast, dinner, and tea. 
 You are single-handed against the Solicitor-General 
 and the Treasury counsel. And be very polite to the 
 Solicitor-General. Then raise your point of law after- 
 wards. This is a big thing. It will do for you what 
 the Penge case did for Edward Clarke. Good-day to 
 you, sir." 
 
 Having given this admirable advice, John went 
 away, jubilant at the idea of returning to work. 
 
 He had not mentioned that the real reason of the 
 partnership was his desire to increase his income for 
 the benefit of his late master's family. 
 
 Except for the bare necessaries of life, the brilliant 
 Mr. Neville's widow and children were entirely depend- 
 ent on John Moseley.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A DINNER PARTY 
 
 RICHARD had scarcely realised the importance of the 
 good fortune that Moseley had brought him, when 
 Jubb entered. 
 
 "Mrs. Ainslie wishes to speak to you on the tele- 
 phone, sir." 
 
 He went into the clerk's room. 
 
 "Hello!" 
 
 "Is that you, Richard?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you love me as much as ever?" 
 
 "Fifty times as much." 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Sure. Is that what you rang me up about?" 
 
 "No, darling. I want to kiss you." 
 
 "Nonsense, you can't by telephone." 
 
 "Come to dinner to-night to make up sixteen ten 
 minutes early before the other people. But I warn 
 you dulness will reign. It's one of my duty dinners. 
 No, come at a quarter-past eight." 
 
 "All right. Are you looking pretty to-day?" 
 
 "Normal, dear. I don't frighten the horses. By 
 the bye " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I worship you." 
 
 "Continue in that course, and all will be well." 
 
 "Am I your favourite person?"
 
 A DINNER PARTY 101 
 
 "Absolutely. I prefer you to all others. I place 
 you pretty high up in Class A." 
 
 "Be serious." 
 
 "No one could be more so." 
 
 "I don't know how it is, but you always sound so 
 American through the telephone." 
 
 "It's an American invention." 
 
 "Do / sound American?" 
 
 "No, you sound like the flutter of angels' wings, 
 accompanied by harps and rather loud cymbals. Does 
 that please you?" 
 
 "No. Get back to your work. You seem in very 
 good spirits to-day. Has anything happened?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "No, not now." 
 
 "Tell me first." 
 
 "I'm going to ring off." 
 
 "Are you sure I'm your favourite per 
 
 Smiling, he rang off. He was one of those persons 
 who when telephoning employ as much facial expression 
 as if the instrument were actually the recipient of the 
 message. 
 
 Then he noticed that Jubb had been sitting in the 
 room during this intellectual conversation. 
 
 "Confound you ! I didn't know you were here." He 
 hoped he had not been very idiotic. But the lovers had 
 gradually invented a sort of code for affectionate con- 
 versation. Mrs. Ainslie had long ago established her 
 claim to be regarded as Richard's "favourite person." 
 She had also acquired a curious courtesy title, "Queen 
 of all possible puss-cats," by which she set great store. 
 These endearments sound nonsensical in cold print. 
 But nowadays the language of love, in reaction against
 
 102 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 the affectation of verse and the high-flown sentiment of 
 romance, has become inane. No pair of lovers whose 
 conversation was reproduced by a gramophone could 
 hope to convince a Master in Lunacy that they were 
 mentally sound. Richard, however, was pleased that 
 in the hearing of Jubb he had not specified Gwendolen's 
 exact position in cat circles. Still, the clerk had heard 
 more than enough to convince him that Mr. Meyville 
 and Mrs. Ainslie regarded one another with an affec- 
 tion superfluous in an unmarried couple. 
 
 Punctually at a quarter-past eight Richard was 
 shown into the drawing-room in Green Street, where 
 Wilfred received him with painful enthusiasm. 
 
 He rose laboriously from his chair. 
 
 "Glad you've come early, Richard. I want to have 
 a word with you. It's right that you should know I 
 am feeling far from well." 
 
 He made this statement with the air of one impart- 
 ing a valuable diplomatic secret. 
 
 "What is it now?" 
 
 This formed a safe interrogatory. For Mr. Ainslie 
 was liable to take grave offence if one inquired about 
 his lumbago when he imagined that he was suffering 
 from double dyspepsia, or about his asthma when nasal 
 catarrh was the carte du jour. 
 
 With intense secrecy he answered: 
 
 "I don't know; frankly, I'm baffled. For the first 
 time in my life I am really anxious about myself." 
 
 "I'm very sorry to hear it. What are your symp- 
 toms?" 
 
 Testily the host replied: 
 
 "Symptoms ! What's the good of telling you my 
 symptoms? I should have to explain the whole course 
 of my disease. It is sufficient for you to know that I
 
 A DINNER PARTY 103 
 
 don't understand what is the matter with me. I doubt 
 if I shall be able to sit through dinner. If I can't 
 manage it, you must be host. Don't you mention a 
 word to anybody about how ill I really am. I don't 
 want people to be alarmed." 
 
 Richard knew that Wilfred wished to give each of 
 his guests a detailed account of his symptoms, in which 
 he possessed a sort of copyright, so he promised not to 
 mention the matter. 
 
 At this moment Gwendolen, accompanied by her 
 Pekinese spaniel, "Keir Hardie," entered the room. 
 
 Dressed in a beautiful white satin gown, and wear- 
 ing a necklace of emeralds, she was looking her best, 
 and her triumphant bearing proved her complete satis- 
 faction with herself. Yet she threw at her lover a 
 glance asking for corroboration. Instantly she read 
 enthusiastic approval in his eyes, and became a com- 
 pletely happy woman. He was pleased with her; he 
 would be pleased with her dinner; he would like some 
 of her guests. Obviously, therefore, he would be 
 pleased with himself. To make her lover thoroughly 
 pleased with himself is the ambition of every woman 
 who loves judiciously. 
 
 "I think I will go up and take a dose of pepsine," 
 said Wilfred thoughtfully. "It is quite on the cards 
 that I shall eat something at dinner that may disagree 
 with me." 
 
 Gwendolen commended his forethought, which an- 
 noyed him a little. 
 
 He protested: 
 
 "Gwen, you are always talking as though I didn't 
 take reasonable care of myself." 
 
 "My dear Willy, no one would ever reproach you on 
 that account," she said soothingly. "The trouble you
 
 104 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 take about yourself is really wonderful. Everybody 
 wonders at it." 
 
 "I'm hanged if I'll be dictated to," he snapped with 
 tetchy irrelevance. "If I don't understand my case, 
 who does? Who the devil does? And to-day I begin 
 to doubt whether even I do or not." 
 
 "Oh, Willy, you do. You know you do." 
 
 Then he went upstairs to dabble in medicaments. 
 
 "Do you think I look well, Richard, my Richard?" 
 
 "Queenly." 
 
 "Kiss me, please." 
 
 He took her firmly in his arms. She felt that he 
 admired her and purred with contentment. 
 
 "Is there anything the matter with your husband, 
 Mrs. Wilfred?" 
 
 It was often his whim, when holding her in his arms, 
 to call her by her married name. A certain humorous 
 piquancy was given to his usurpation of the husband's 
 privileges by his politeness in addressing her as "Mrs. 
 Wilfred." 
 
 She laughed, a happy, quivering laugh. 
 
 "Nothing. He will enjoy himself thoroughly to- 
 night. He sits between Lady Vera Mufflin and Mrs. 
 Craven-Hill. They will listen to him. Each is a some- 
 what celebrated sufferer in her way. They will make 
 a Trinity of internal troubles. But Willy will baffle 
 them both completely. He's invented a lot of new ail- 
 ments for next season." 
 
 "Really good Spring novelties?" 
 
 "The best he's ever had. But he's made a discovery 
 of great importance. According to The Lancet, any 
 man with one-tenth of his diseases is, ipso facto, dead. 
 Willy is delighted at being, theoretically, a corpse." 
 
 "That's a cheery way to take one's pleasure !"
 
 A DINNER PARTY 105 
 
 "Ah, but it's a great triumph for him, for this rea- 
 son: his continued existence proves that Medical Sci- 
 ence is a fraud." 
 
 "But do you mean to say, my dear, that there is 
 nothing the matter with him at all?" 
 
 "Of course, no one can be really well who turns 
 himself into a medicine-chest. And Willy is a peram- 
 bulating drug-store. If he were to give up taking 
 medicines, he would be as well as you or I. But then 
 he'd have nothing to do. He's never had any profes- 
 sion or any hobby except this sort of hygienic sui- 
 cide." 
 
 At length Willy returned with the resigned smile of 
 a stout-hearted but hopeless sufferer. The leading suf- 
 ferer of our day. 
 
 As the guests appeared his demeanour became 
 pathetic. 
 
 "How are you, Mr. Ainslie?" 
 
 With ghoulish glee, he answered: 
 
 "Worse than ever, thanks." 
 
 "Delighted to see you, Lady Vera ; I'm terribly ill." 
 
 "You must excuse me, Lord Lashbridge, but I'm 
 hardly in a condition to sit up at dinner." 
 
 "My dear Lady Pamela, I'm glad you're looking so 
 well. I'm just able to come down to dinner. That is 
 all. I hope to be well and strong in a year or two 
 with great care, but I doubt it." 
 
 And so on. 
 
 He behaved as though at any moment he might issue 
 invitations to his funeral. 
 
 So depressing a man would never have been tolerated 
 except for his wife or as a joke. 
 
 Lord Lashbridge had described him as the grimmest 
 jest in May fair.
 
 106 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Sir James Tufnell remarked to Richard: 
 
 "I believe our host would positively enjoy being sen- 
 tenced to death." 
 
 "I think not, unless he could be present at the 
 inquest." 
 
 Richard took down Lady Pamela 1'Estocq, a beauti- 
 ful fair girl, whom he had never met before. She had 
 dreamy grey eyes, an exquisite complexion. Though 
 her mouth was large, it was singularly expressive. Her 
 hair, however, formed her most striking charm, and 
 was arranged with apparently accidental art. The 
 sudden interest excited in her eyes when he was intro- 
 duced to her convinced him that she knew that he was 
 to defend the Yoghi. It seemed to him more or less 
 revolting that all girls should be more or less familiar 
 with the main details of this appalling case. 
 
 Clearly she suppressed a question that was on the 
 tip of her tongue. He was glad of it. 
 
 On his left sat Mrs. Cyrus B. Lough, one of the 
 Americans who had discovered the intense inferiority 
 of London to New York. She, it was, who had done 
 all the neat things at Newport. She had invented the 
 celebrated "Lunatic Dinner," at which all the guests 
 were supposed to behave like lunatics. The success of 
 their efforts in this direction had made the affair a 
 triumph, and had even roused the envy of Mrs. Van- 
 Astor-Gould. A "Tramp and Trianon" supper for 
 millionaires disguised as tramps and millionairesses 
 dressed in Watteau costumes had pleased many. Her 
 "skunk" party, however, was her chef d'aeuvre. She 
 was so ultra-double-chinned that she appeared more 
 than double-breasted. 
 
 In a loud voice, speaking with an accent like a banjo, 
 she laid down the law in indifferent grammar on men
 
 A DINNER PARTY 107 
 
 and things and cities. Apropos of theatres she said: 
 
 "No, I can't stand Cliftonville anyways. In the 
 first place, he's got his eyes on one side of his face, and 
 his nose on the other. And yet all the women flock to 
 see him en masse, as the Roman Catholics say. I don't 
 need to pay twenty dollars for a box to see Clifton- 
 ville. I can go into Marshall and Snelgrove's and see 
 two hundred floor-walkers like him any day of .the 
 week. He's what you call over here a shop-walker, and 
 that's all there is to him." 
 
 She had spoken rapidly, and her huge breast heaved 
 like a sea of diamonds from the effort. There was an 
 uncomfortable pause. No one even had the courage 
 to point out that, following the custom of awkward 
 pauses, it had occurred at precisely twenty minutes to 
 the hour. 
 
 "My brother is a rather good actor in some parts," 
 said Richard, willing to treat the matter fairly. 
 
 "I consider him the best actor on the English stage," 
 Lady Pamela insisted, looking somewhat indignantly 
 at the literally built American. 
 
 "Why!" said she. "Sakes alive! I'd no more idea, 
 Mr. Meyville, that he was your brother than anything 
 in the world ! I'm real pained if I've said anything to 
 hurt you." 
 
 "Not in the least, I assure you." 
 
 "Mind you, I like him personally. He's real refined 
 in a drawing-room, but he don't know any more about 
 acting than an emu knows about envelopes. So Clif- 
 tonville is not his real name?" 
 
 "No, it's the real name of a Margate hotel. I fancy 
 my brother overlooked the fact when he adopted it." 
 
 Then Lady Pamela claimed his attention. 
 
 "I think I've seen your brother in every piece that
 
 108 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 he's played in since I left school. He's perfectly fas- 
 cinating." 
 
 She was deeply enamoured of Montague. In her 
 boudoir there were no fewer than forty of his photo- 
 graphs, and she used no picture postcards that did not 
 bear his portrait. To her girl friends she openly 
 avowed her deep love for the actor. 
 
 The worship of an actor is among the most harmless 
 outlets for a girl's affections. It is, of course, out of 
 date, but it is not likely to be disastrous. Lady Pamela 
 was one of the few matinee girls suffering from Picture- 
 postkarditis to be found in the upper circles, 
 
 Gwendolen had told her that she would be taken 
 down by Montague's brother, and it was on account of 
 Richard's relationship to the proprietor of the Pall 
 Mall Theatre that she had evinced so much interest on 
 being introduced to him. 
 
 Throughout the dinner she talked of nothing but the 
 actor. How often Richard saw him, and where and 
 what his chambers were like, and the most trivial details 
 of his life in Gloucester Terrace. But her questions 
 were not put directly. She led Richard on to talk while 
 keeping the conversation in the channel that alone 
 interested her. 
 
 "My father knows Mr. Cliftonville very well, but I've 
 never met him. You know, my father is very peculiar 
 about some things. For instance, he will never have 
 actors in the house." 
 
 "But Lord Lashbridge belongs to the Beefsteak," he 
 said. "Aren't there some of them there?" 
 
 "I know, but I think he still holds the old 'rogue and 
 vagabond' theory. Isn't it a shame? In some things 
 he is so old-fashioned that he is ulta-modern. I must 
 introduce you after dinner. I'm sure you'll like him."
 
 A DINNER PARTY 109 
 
 At that moment Lord Lashbridge was talking to 
 Lady Kytnow, the wife of Sir Andrew Kytnow, a poli- 
 tician who had obtained his baronetcy by a judicious 
 combination of stupidity and Scotchness, on the 
 strength of which he wore a full set of "Let-us-pray" 
 whiskerettes. She was a specialist in liaisons. She had 
 aptly been called the Divorce Court Debrett. She 
 always knew what man was in love with what woman, 
 and for what reason. Her own lack of experience had 
 compelled her to take an interest in the affairs of other 
 people. For it was not possible that she could ever 
 have been fond of Sir Andrew Kytnow, who, as member 
 for South Bayswater, had, even in the House of Com- 
 mons, acquired such a reputation for dulness that it 
 amounted almost to genius. And he was just as dull 
 in private life. Also, she was so conspicuously plain 
 that no word had ever been uttered against her reputa- 
 tion. Beautiful women are the players in the theatre 
 of life. Plain women are the critics. They applaud 
 the most indifferent actors. But they are very bitter 
 in their condemnation of the actresses. They can "see 
 nothing" in them! Lady Kytnow was one of those 
 pessimistic dowagers who, having eaten of the Tree 
 of Life, are now as goddesses, knowing only evil. 
 
 "It has been going on for three years precisely 
 three years in July. And nobody seems to mind." 
 This she said a little severely, and not entirely accu- 
 rately. 
 
 "Some women are not allowed to look over a hedge, 
 I know," explained Lashbridge. "But I fancy the rea- 
 son is that they look over it in such an offensive way. 
 While other women are allowed to spend the entire 
 winter on the other side of the hedge at Monte Carlo 
 or anywhere else and no one cares twopence about it."
 
 110 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "And she's older than he is." 
 
 "A woman is as young as her lover can make her 
 feel. Besides, how old is Mrs. Ainslie? Thirty-one?" 
 
 "Thirty-two, to be precise." 
 
 "By all means, let us arrive at precision. Young 
 Meyville is, I take it, about thirty. I think their ages 
 are most suitable. My son, Ventnor, is eighteen. He 
 is in love with the Dowager Duchess of Roehampton. 
 She is his senior by about thirty years. Still, she is a 
 very well-preserved woman. And they tell me that she 
 is quite desperately in love with him. However, I doubt 
 whether anything will come of it. But, she has 
 spoilt Ventnor's cricket. Last year," he continued 
 as an explanation, "her presence at the Eton and 
 Harrow match so embarrassed him that he failed to 
 score." 
 
 Very bitterly and precisely Lady Kytnow inter- 
 j ected : 
 
 "The Dowager Duchess has been in love with my 
 nephew, Captain Cardew, since February of last year." 
 
 "Since February ! You astound me !" 
 
 "Yes; I saw them at the Palace Theatre together," 
 she said, through tight-shut lips. 
 
 "Not alone!" 
 
 "There were other people in the box. But I was not 
 deceived. I was in the box above. It was the four- 
 teenth of February, my birthday," she said, as though 
 that interesting fact made it worse. "I remember per- 
 fectly well." 
 
 Lady Kytnow had trained her memory to such a 
 degree of discriminating perfection that she never for- 
 got to forget anything pleasant about anybody. 
 
 "Good heavens !" said he, "you mustn't tell Ventnor. 
 I am so delighted to hear that his case is hopeless.
 
 A DINNER PARTY 111 
 
 He must never find out. Anything that keeps a boy 
 who will be a peer away from the Gaiety is to be 
 encouraged. I am not so ambitious as to hope that 
 my boy will select his Countess from the chorus. But, 
 tell me, you with your knowledge are sure to know, will 
 this affair of Mrs. Ainslie's last?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it will." 
 
 Becoming more bitter, she added, apparently as an 
 indictment : 
 
 "They are so extraordinarily happy." 
 
 "Yes, I should say they are well suited. They're 
 both good-looking. She is charming, and the young 
 man, they say, is going to rise. But how about Mr. 
 Ainslie? What view does he take?" 
 
 "I oughtn't to tell you." 
 
 "Well, if he told you, surely you can tell me." 
 
 "He didn't." 
 
 She compromised and whispered. 
 
 "Oh, ah!" he laughed. "He's that sort of man, is 
 he? Well, then nobody can object." Bending his head 
 courteously, he said, "Except you, dear Lady Kytnow. 
 You are privileged." 
 
 Pleased, but bewildered, the lady continued: 
 
 "Of course, she married him for his money. He has 
 twenty thousand a year." 
 
 "Ah, but he squanders it on patent medicines." 
 
 "They are his one luxury," replied Lady Kytnow, 
 who was always literal. "He's a great sufferer. He 
 has talked to me by the hour about his sufferings. I 
 doubt if he will be with us long." 
 
 "Nonsense. He always reminds me of Clement XIV., 
 who poisoned himself by taking too many antidotes 
 against poison. There's nothing whatever the matter 
 with him. One of these days Mr. Ainslie will be too
 
 112 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 seedy to take any medicine, and then he'll recover imme- 
 diately." 
 
 Completely mystified, this delightful woman took ref- 
 uge in an eminent Agnostic archdeacon on her other side. 
 
 When the ladies had left the table, Richard enjoyed 
 a very gratifying sensation. Tufnell beckoned him to 
 his side, and introduced him to Lord Lashbridge. 
 Kytnow from across the table interrogated him on the 
 Yoghi case in his most unintelligent House of Com- 
 mons manner. 
 
 "Tell me, are these people guilty or not?" 
 
 "I'll tell you after the trial, Sir Andrew." 
 
 "I very much doubt whether you will," said Lord 
 Lashbridge. "Suppose, by any possibility, you get 
 your clients off, you're not going to admit the truth 
 that they are guilty." 
 
 "You may take it from me," Tufnell interrupted 
 judicially, "that if they are acquitted they are more 
 innocent than any middle-aged persons have ever yet 
 succeeded in being." 
 
 "You don't give me much hope, Sir James," said 
 Richard, as he lighted a cigar. 
 
 "I'd give 'em fifteen years each," replied the judge. 
 "And if you get 'em off, which you won't, I'd give 
 you penal servitude for life. Don't you think so? 
 Yes." 
 
 And the judge leaned back in his chair, grunting 
 heartily, for with him a grunt was the equivalent of 
 boisterous laughter. 
 
 For half an hour the men sought from Richard veri- 
 fication of unreported details which were in circulation 
 at the clubs. At last Wilfred rose dismally. 
 
 "All this makes me feel very ill," he announced. "Let 
 us join the ladies."
 
 A DINNER PARTY 113 
 
 On their way upstairs Lashbridge said, "Mr. Mey- 
 ville, I'm coming to hear you in this case. I've got a 
 couple of stalls seats in the 'City Lands.' Will you 
 return the compliment? I'm giving a dance on Friday 
 of next week. Mrs. Ainslie's coming and her hus- 
 band, if his health permits. I should like you to see 
 more of Ainslie. My daughter shall send you a card. 
 You know I'm a widower." 
 
 "I assumed so." 
 
 "Why, may I ask?" 
 
 "There are some people who must be widowers. 
 There are certain men who, at sight, you are sure must 
 have survived their wives." 
 
 "What are their characteristics?" 
 
 "Frankly, I can't say. I've often wondered. Of 
 course, the object of every smart woman is to be and 
 to look a widow. Most of them succeed. But a 
 widower is born not made. You are, if I may say so, 
 one of Nature's widowers." 
 
 Lashbridge looked curiously at Richard and then 
 burst into a hearty laugh. 
 
 "By gad, so I am. I've always wondered what I 
 was, and now I know. I'm one of Nature's widowers. 
 And you you're one of Nature's co-respondents. And 
 I'm very glad that she I mention no names has 
 found it out. The ideal co-respondent is born and 
 not cited." 
 
 His loose-limbed figure lunged forward with laughter 
 as he opened the door of the drawing-room.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 "A COLD WOMAN" 
 
 MRS. AINSLIE rose to receive the men. 
 
 "What have you got to say?" asked Lashbridge. 
 
 "Nothing, except that I'm glad to see you again." 
 
 "Number three. I congratulate you." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "You are the third hostess this season who has not 
 welcomed us with that terribly depressing question, 
 'Well, have you settled the affairs of the nation?' ' 
 
 Immediately every man looked guilty as though he 
 had purposely and of malice aforethought concealed 
 the only possible solution of the Free Trade question. 
 
 "But I always ask that," said Lady Kytnow,, slightly 
 befogged. 
 
 "You, dear Lady Kytnow, you are privileged. Such 
 an interrogation is expected from you. Your husband 
 is a legislator, who will shortly, I trust, be in the Lords. 
 Only the other day Lord Wiltshire, during an exceed- 
 ingly dull debate, said to me, 'Why haven't we got 
 Kytnow in the Lords? We must have him; the atmos- 
 phere would be congenial.' ' 
 
 "I must tell my husband that, dear Lord Lashbridge. 
 He will be delighted to hear what you've said. . Andrew, 
 my dear 
 
 She summoned her husband to her side and confided 
 Lord Lashbridge's compliment to Sir Andrew's watch- 
 chain as he stood panting above her.
 
 "A COLD WOMAN" 115 
 
 Meanwhile, Gwendolen was imperceptibly arranging 
 her guests in suitable groups, but she found occasion 
 to whisper: 
 
 "Richard, stay to the end." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 To requests that she should sing she answered: 
 
 "The amateur is a thing of the past. We are all 
 professionals nowadays or nothing. No man who can 
 write a decent letter ever does so. He writes an 'advice 
 on evidence,' is it, Mr. Meyville? or an article on the 
 deterioration of British blotting-paper. And we all 
 hate hearing people sing, unless we've paid to hear 
 them do it." 
 
 "That is perfectly true," said Sir James, who had 
 the courtesy to agree discourteously with her. "Pro- 
 fessionalism has killed even games. The ordinary man 
 is a fool if he takes a hand at bridge, or tennis, or 
 croquet. Everything that is done nowadays is done 
 for a living. Is it so, or is it not? Of course it is." 
 
 But Lashbridge, who had a genuine admiration for 
 her voice, and an incipient admiration for herself, led 
 her to the piano. 
 
 "What shall I sing?" 
 
 "That dismal song about you, please." 
 
 "About me? Oh, you mean the Lady Gwendolen 
 song. I sincerely trust it has nothing to do with me." 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender and pure. The 
 words were those of the ordinary drawing-room ballad, 
 but they had been set to charming music by Reggie 
 Turner, the composer who was an intimate friend of 
 hers. The song was a great favourite of Gwendolen's, 
 and, somehow perhaps in a measure because of her 
 friendship for the composer she had developed a senti- 
 mental sympathy for the unfortunate heroine. Though
 
 116 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 it was a man's song, she seemed to sing as though it 
 were a prophetic poem about herself. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF ROSES 
 
 Here in my garden of roses 
 
 Roses are crimson and white, 
 
 Roses that breathe in their fragrance 
 
 Incense of Earth's delight. 
 
 Fairer than all the flowers 
 Twined round the hearts of men, 
 Sleeps in my garden its mistress, 
 My Lady Gwendolen. 
 
 Stark in my garden of roses 
 That sigh with the summer's breath, 
 Bearing his scythe for the harvest, 
 Standeth the Reaper Death. 
 
 His scythe shall reap no flowers 
 
 Grown in the fields of men. 
 
 The Reaper has marked in his reaping 
 
 My Lady Gwendolen. 
 
 Grief in my garden of roses 
 Cometh to every rose, 
 They bury their heads in sorrow 
 Watching her blue eyes close. 
 
 Their leaves they scatter as tear-drops 
 
 To hide from the gaze of man, 
 
 In a scented shroud of rose-leaves, 
 
 My Lady Gwendolen. 
 
 The simplicity of the setting was a perfect medium 
 for the singer's voice. A few chords sounded light and
 
 "A COLD WOMAN" 117 
 
 warm. You felt the fragrant life of the flowers, the 
 perfume of white roses in the twilight. The first part 
 of the melody expressed the poetry of passion, the 
 proud contentment of love. Softly and tenderly she 
 sang, as though fearful of disturbing the sleeper in 
 her paradise of flowers. Then sad minor chords were 
 struck, and the melody died away in a perfumed agony. 
 
 Grief had come to every rose, and the singer's voice 
 sank lower and lower, as though subdued by relentless 
 Death. With the last chord fell the last petals of the 
 roses. 
 
 When she had finished, Lashbridge thought he saw 
 the glimmer of tears in her eyes as she darted a glance 
 in the direction of Richard. He, however, was talking 
 in a low voice to Pamela. 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie declined to sing again, and rose from 
 the piano. 
 
 Lady Kytnow was, for the moment, completely at the 
 mercy of Wilfred's latest bulletins. While Richard 
 seemed absorbed in conversation, Gwendolen took Lord 
 Lashbridge to interview the spaniel in front of the fire- 
 place. 
 
 "He shall perform now," she said. "Keir, what do 
 you do when you're bored?" 
 
 The dog (who was called "Keir," after the eminent 
 patriot and politician, either because he was so con- 
 spicuously dressy or because he was worth his weight 
 in gold) instantly died. 
 
 After Keir's resurrection, Lashbridge inquired : 
 
 "What do you do for a knighthood?" 
 
 Keir sat up and begged. 
 
 Everybody roared with laughter at the extremely 
 intelligent and over-dressed appearance of the dog. 
 Lashbridge protested:
 
 118 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "I hate seeing a dog perform. It degrades him to 
 the level of an actor." 
 
 At her father's words an indignant flush spread over 
 Pamela's face, a flush so admirably becoming that 
 Richard stared inquisitively at her, a fact noted by 
 Gwendolen. 
 
 It seemed that her face became pallid against the 
 dead black of her hair. As if by instinct the guests 
 appeared to realise that this was the moment to leave. 
 A rustle as of cold wind went through the room. 
 
 Sir James Tufnell, on the point of departure, said 
 to Richard: 
 
 "I congratulate you on the way you won the running- 
 down case to-day." 
 
 "Pardon me, Sir James," he answered with somewhat 
 tactless tact in allusion to the judge's summing-up. 
 "It was you who won the case." 
 
 "Eh? It was a peculiar coincidence that as I was 
 driving down to the Courts this morning my carriage 
 was nearly run into by one of the vehicles of that 
 infernal Amalgamated Omnibus Co." 
 
 "It was a very fortunate coincidence." 
 
 Tufnell grunted. 
 
 "By the way, you know O'Brien is going to try the 
 Yoghi case next week. I spoke to him about you. He'll 
 give you every chance. He doesn't like the Solicitor- 
 General. You know he's not too fond of Irishmen." 
 
 "But he's Irish himself!" 
 
 "That's the reason. Do Irishmen ever love one 
 another? I doubt it. Good-night to you." 
 
 Everything was going wonderfully well for Richard. 
 
 After the guests had left, he found Gwendolen in 
 the dining-room drinking lemonade. In a dry tone 
 that she had never used to him before, she said:
 
 "A COLD WOMAN" 119 
 
 "Don't go. I want to speak to you." 
 
 At that moment Wilfred came in, jubilant: 
 
 "I've never enjoyed myself so much in my life. 
 Charming woman, Lady Vera Hufflfn! And Mrs. 
 Craven-Hill is as sympathetic as she is sensible. I 
 interested them very much." 
 
 Clearly, Wilfred was full of conversation. Having 
 conversed for three hours about his internal economy 
 which really amounted to extravagance he pro- 
 posed to "make a night of it." He felt in training for 
 doing justice to his sole topic. 
 
 "You can go to bed, dear. I want to have a talk 
 with Richard." 
 
 She saw the necessity of yielding, said good-night, 
 and went out of the room. 
 
 Instantly Wilfred plunged into his favourite subject: 
 
 "I'm terribly ill. I'm the last person to alarm peo- 
 ple, as you know. But, Richard, it is well that you 
 should be aware of my position. For years I have 
 devoted myself to studying my case. And now I am 
 completely at fault." 
 
 With intense eagerness he leaned forward as he 
 said: 
 
 "To-night I ate a couple of slices of ham cooked in 
 champagne. I don't why I did it I suppose I was 
 interested in Mrs. Craven-Hill's conversation about the 
 properties of Lithia water. In the ordinary course of 
 things I should be in excruciating agony. But I feel 
 no pain." 
 
 "Surely you don't complain of that? You are very 
 hard to please, Wilfred." 
 
 "I don't complain. Heaven knows, I never complain. 
 But I'm alarmed! Alarmed!" 
 
 "But why? What's the good of worrying because
 
 120 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 you feel well? You may get accustomed to it. And, in 
 time, you may even grow to like it." 
 
 "But I've no business to feel well ! Don't you see 
 if my liver was all right, I couldn't possibly feel well. 
 My organs have ceased to work. I am at a standstill. 
 This is the beginning of the end. Before long the 
 action of the heart will cease." 
 
 The young man looked curiously at him. Wilfred 
 clearly would never be convinced that he was suffering 
 from nothing but the "Medicine Habit," a vice as 
 dangerous as alcoholism, cocainism, or the practice of 
 taking morphia. A man who is his own doctor has a 
 corpse for his patient. 
 
 Evidently on the subject of his imaginary ailments 
 Wilfred was as mad as a Mullah. 
 
 Deliberately he said: 
 
 "I shall not last much longer. All my affairs are in 
 order. Everything goes to Gwendolen. She'll be a rich 
 woman, but she deserves it, in a way. Now this is what 
 I want to speak to you about. I don't want you to 
 marry Gwendolen." 
 
 Richard rose in astonishment. 
 
 "Let's talk about that in ten years' time. I've no 
 idea" 
 
 "Of course you haven't. But she's very fond of 
 you. She likes you better than anybody else. But I 
 warn you against her." 
 
 "Indeed! Why?" asked the other in surprise. 
 
 Mysteriously, with outstretched hands vibrating 
 from excitement, Wilfred explained : 
 
 "My wife's a most awfully cold woman. She's an 
 iceberg. She doesn't know what love is." 
 
 Richard suppressed a smile at the husband's strange 
 hallucination.
 
 "A COLD WOMAN" 121 
 
 "I see you're surprised. Naturally you don't know. 
 Nobody would guess. She's a splendid creature, bril- 
 liant, beautiful ! No one admires my wife more than I. 
 But, mark you, not as a wife." 
 
 In that capacity he dismissed Gwendolen with a snap 
 of the fingers. 
 
 "No one knows more about women than I do. They 
 are the only things in which I take an interest. I've 
 studied them all, every sort, everywhere France, Ja- 
 pan, Italy, San Francisco, Port Said." Then, quite 
 calmly, but with a pathetic shake of the head, he stated, 
 "I should have married an Andulasian woman." 
 "Do you know many Andulasian women?" 
 "All of them!" 
 
 "Surely not all Andulasian women? There must be 
 several hundreds, surely?" 
 
 "No, no, I don't know each individual, but I know 
 
 all the types. Of course, a man of my temperament 
 
 could never be entirely happy, from a matrimonial point 
 
 of view, in this country. I should have been a Pasha." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Certainly. I have often thought of settling five 
 thousand a year on Gwendolen, and going to live in 
 Constantinople." 
 
 The weedy little man, excited by the idea, walked 
 jerkily about the room. 
 
 "It's too late now, of course. But that would have 
 saved me. Now, look at my constitution. What is it? 
 Nothing. I can't blame Gwendolen, in a way. But I 
 don't want a man like you, whom I am fond of, to have 
 his life ruined as mine has been." 
 
 If Richard had believed a word of this improbable 
 harangue he would have seen pathos in his shivering 
 host anxiously, unselfishly warning him against happi-
 
 122 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 ness. But he had his reasons for placing no faith in 
 any single one of the statements. 
 
 His object was to get out of the house without 
 laughing. Apparently, Wilfred, by some system of 
 auto-suggestion, had evolved a sentimental side to his 
 disorders. With women he knew that such a state of 
 things was common ; he was aware that many matrons 
 of Bayswater regarded illness itself as a form of ro- 
 mance, that in their minds conversation on the subject 
 occupied the place held by amours in the minds of the 
 more skittish and less matronly mothers of Mayfair. 
 
 Mr. Ainslie's obsession was so comical that it could 
 not be serious. 
 
 Richard prepared to leave. 
 
 "I say, Wilfred, I'm truly sorry to hear all this," he 
 said, with a successful assumption of gravity. "You've 
 given me a piece of advice. May I give you one? Put 
 yourself on a strict diet of no drugs for a week and see 
 how you get on." 
 
 "Fatal! Fatal!" cried the other, throwing up his 
 hands. 
 
 "Try it ! At present your body is a sort of battle- 
 field for various divisions of the pharmacopoeia. Have 
 a week off, and let things settle down a bit." 
 
 "It would be a complete change of treatment. I 
 don't think I could risk that. Not at present, at least. 
 I'll think it over. It's a new idea." 
 
 Eventually Richard left, having extracted a promise 
 that the new treatment should be seriously considered.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF THE YOGHI AND PRISCILLA 
 
 MrcH against her will, Gwendolen came to the con- 
 clusion that she was vaguely jealous. She did not, of 
 course, believe for a moment that Richard might fall 
 in love with Pamela. She had no reason to suppose 
 that he felt any particular interest in the girl. But 
 she was for the first time definitely conscious of the pos- 
 sibility that he might eventually grow tired of her. 
 Hitherto their happiness had been complete, for each 
 was convinced of the other's loyalty. She could not 
 remember a single occasion on which he had told her 
 anything that was not actually true. He had never, 
 to her knowledge, paid the slightest attention to any 
 other woman. On all subjects that had interest for him 
 he had taken her into his confidence. Even the slight- 
 est, as well as the gravest, anxieties of his life had, she 
 firmly believed, always been laid before her. It is the 
 privilege of love, and, indeed, one of the causes of its 
 great popularity as an institution, that lovers need 
 speak about nothing but themselves. Still, the lover 
 prefers to dilate on such matters as reveal him in a 
 favourable and, if possible, a triumphant light. And 
 Gwendolen remembered with satisfaction many little 
 details, both with regard to himself and his home-life, 
 which were mean and petty, and would only have been 
 related to a woman from whom nothing was concealed 
 and whose sympathy was certain.
 
 124 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Jealousy was a new experience for her. She re- 
 garded it as unnecessary and, indeed, dishonourable to 
 her love. The idle excuse that a woman makes for being 
 jealous that "It shows how much I love you" had 
 never occurred to her. A contract to love is like any 
 other contract. It is terminable after due notice or 
 by adequate compensation. But to receive cash from 
 A, and to pretend to him that you are supplying to 
 him the goods which you are actually supplying to B, 
 is roguery. 
 
 This was an illustration of Richard's, who regarded 
 love from a common-sense point of view. (He firmly 
 believed that passion could be satisfactorily regarded 
 in such a way.) 
 
 "My dear Gwendolen," he had said he had said 
 it in a punt during a very charming day on the river 
 "if ever you get jealous of me, I shall regard it as 
 a symptom of your decrepitude, or as an insult to me 
 whichever you like. Either your power of judgment 
 will be failing, or you will be accusing me of dishonesty. 
 You do not show your confidence in your trustee if 
 you suggest that he is embezzling your trust funds." 
 
 She knew that he was absolutely honest. But how 
 could he more than another permanently control his 
 heart? 
 
 On the day after the dinner-party she reflected on 
 the jealousy question, and decided to dismiss it as fu- 
 tile. But just as a man who considers the possibility 
 of being in love ends by loving, so a woman who pon- 
 ders on whether or no she has cause for jealousy is 
 bound to become jealous. 
 
 Two days passed. She had no word from him. Sev- 
 eral times she failed to reach him by the telephone. 
 Common-sense told her that it would be ridiculous to
 
 DEFENCE OF YOGHI AND PRISCILLA 125 
 
 write and tell him that she was jealous. But if she put 
 pen to paper, she felt that she must deal with the sub- 
 ject. She wired, asking him to call at certain definite 
 times. He answered that he was engaged. 
 
 On the following Monday (in a new dress) she drove 
 down to the Temple. 
 
 Pioneered by her groom, she mounted several flights 
 of stairs, and was privileged to converse with Jubb. 
 She did not care for Jubb. He was horribly untidy 
 and perfumed with attar of alcohol. Also, he said 
 that Richard was not in. 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "At the Old Bailey." 
 
 "When will he be back?" 
 
 "I couldn't say." 
 
 "Where are his chambers?" 
 
 "Here, madam." 
 
 Jubb showed her, petulantly jingling the ruby- 
 studded vanity-case that hung from her wrist, into 
 Richard's miserable little room. Bewildered, she stared 
 at the clerk : 
 
 "I asked for his chambers where he works. This, 
 I presume, is the box-room. But there aren't even 
 boxes in it." 
 
 Jubb became irritable. Incompetent though he was, 
 he had a full share of the barrister's clerk's loyalty 
 to his master. 
 
 "This is where he does -his work! There are the 
 briefs." 
 
 The semi-romantic interest that exists in the fem- 
 inine brain in connection with the term "brief" was dis- 
 pelled in Gwendolen's mind when she looked at the long 
 white sheets of doubled paper tied with red tape. The 
 interest a loving woman feels in the surroundings of
 
 126 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 that part of her lover's life in which she has no share 
 received a severe shock. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that Mr. Meyville works here?" 
 
 "Certainly he does. Why shouldn't he?" 
 
 "How can he? The place is filthy." 
 
 She put her white-gloved hand on the wainscoting, 
 and when she drew it away the fingers were black. 
 
 Disgusted, she drew off the glove and threw it into 
 the waste-paper basket. 
 
 "Surely there is some mistake," she said at last. "I 
 thought Mr. Meyville had chambers. This is well, 
 I don't know what it is. But it is unlike anything I 
 have ever seen." 
 
 Her surprise was so evident, her beauty was so strik- 
 ing, that Jubb pardoned her ignorance. 
 
 "You don't seem to understand, milady 
 
 "I am not 'my lady.' I am Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 "Oh, it's you that telephones!" he said, beginning 
 to understand the reason of the visit of the most beau- 
 tiful creature with whom he had ever conducted a con- 
 versation face to face. "We've often had words, you 
 and me. You're '2835 Mayfair'! I thought I knew 
 your voice." 
 
 Gwendolen smiled graciously. 
 
 "I am the Mayfair you mention." 
 
 "You see, mum, with barristers, even if they'd only 
 got a third share in a room like this, they call it their 
 chambers." 
 
 "Then a room of this size may really be three dis- 
 tinct sets of chambers?" 
 
 "Certainly ; and often is." 
 
 "Are you sure you know? You're the caretaker, 
 I presume?" 
 
 The clerk was too indignant at the ignominious
 
 DEFENCE OF YOGHI AND PRISCILLA 127 
 
 suggestion to make a suitable reply. He stood speech- 
 less. 
 
 The conversation terminated abruptly. Gwendolen, 
 escorted by the groom, descended the perilous stairs. 
 
 Peering through the still open door, Jubb muttered 
 furiously : 
 
 "A trollop nothing more nor less than a trollop. 
 Me a caretaker! Oh, my Gawd!" 
 
 Gwendolen was touched to the heart by the poverty 
 of Richard's room. To her temperament, beautiful 
 and luxurious surroundings were necessaries of life. 
 As Miss Paxton-Pryce, she had found her father's hid- 
 eous house in Queen's Gate intolerable, and had mar- 
 ried Wilfred chiefly because his wealth would enable 
 her to live in the atmosphere which was absolutely 
 necessary to her contentment. Just as some women 
 are properly fated to spinsterhood, so Gwendolen had 
 been constructed by nature to be a rich man's wife. It 
 was, therefore, with a shock that she discovered the 
 squalid conditions of Richard's life. No wonder he 
 was struggling with all his strength to reach success ! 
 And she regarded the fact that he had never hinted 
 how depressing were the surroundings of failure as a 
 mark of delicate consideration on his part. The most 
 simple services are often the most highly rewarded. A 
 very slight act of consideration frequently appeals with 
 extraordinary force to a woman. Gwendolen felt un- 
 usually in love with Richard and proportionately jeal- 
 ous of Pamela. Although she was proud of his love, 
 she considered it preposterous that he should dream of 
 aspiring to the hand of Pamela, whom, with very nat- 
 ural contradiction, she thought entirely unworthy of 
 him. 
 
 On the next day again there was no news. From
 
 128 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Jubb, whose enmity she did not for a moment suspect, 
 only evasive telephonic replies could be obtained. 
 Richard was in London! Why could she never see 
 him? 
 
 On Wednesday the papers were full of him and his 
 conduct of the Yoghi case. On Thursday he was al- 
 most a celebrity. 
 
 Her lover had become a mere topic of conversation, 
 like Free Trade or the Nonconformist Conscience. But 
 she hadn't seen him for nearly a week. He was public 
 property. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Richard had never felt the 
 slightest suspicion of her jealousy. He had been very 
 busy with his big case and in arranging to move into 
 his new chambers. In moments of successful effort love 
 slips unnoticed out of a man's life. 
 
 On the evening of Gwendolen's visit to the Temple, 
 he had arranged with Kendal to give up his "chambers" 
 much to the annoyance of Jubb, who, having re- 
 garded Richard as a good investment, promptly cir- 
 culated the report that he was being financed by a lady 
 in easy circumstances and of palpably easier virtue. 
 
 With regard to the Yoghi case, everything was go- 
 ing well. The two peculiar defendants had behaved 
 in court with an eccentricity that had never previously 
 been exhibited in the Old Bailey. 
 
 The Yoghi appeared in the ordinary evening-dress 
 of a conjuror, while Priscilla, an extremely stout lady, 
 wore a purple toga and a complete yellow wig, like a 
 beehive; she also carried a "property" olive branch 
 in her hand, and devoted much time to silent prayer. 
 On occasions, in spite of her counsel's remonstrances, 
 she insisted on talking to the judge in the manner of 
 a Christian Scientist.
 
 DEFENCE OF YOGHI AND PRISCILLA 129 
 
 The Yoghi himself said neat things about judges in 
 general, the next world, and "matter." Matter, he 
 maintained, was not matter, and, apparently, truth 
 consisted solely of unintelligible jargon. His lan- 
 guage was of such cryptic complication as is only em- 
 ployed by the followers of Mrs. Mary Baker G. Eddy. 
 
 When called upon to plead, he had stated: 
 
 "There is no such thing as guilt. For guilt implies 
 sin. A tree can last for hundreds of years. And I, 
 being a man of higher order of creation than a tree, 
 can, without sin, live for ever." 
 
 "The anticipation of unusual longevity," said Sir 
 Stephen O'Brien, the judge, "is no answer to a criminal 
 charge." (For two obiter dicta this intelligent per- 
 son will ever be famous : "I hate Presbyterians as much 
 as anybody; still, they are entitled to justice"; and 
 "All barristers are subsidised liars.") 
 
 He then instructed the Clerk of Arraigns to enter 
 a plea of "Not Guilty." 
 
 But the prisoners protested against that course. It 
 was almost impossible to satisfy the Yoghi and Pris- 
 cilla. 
 
 The judge rebuked them. 
 
 "Your defence is now in the hands of a very able 
 counsel, and you must keep silence while he conducts 
 it and calls your witnesses, if you have any." 
 
 "The Lord is our witness," answered the Yoghi. 
 
 "Your counsel will exercise his discretion as to whom 
 he places in the witness-box." 
 
 Then the trial began. In spite of the revolting na- 
 ture of the evidence and the seriousness of the charge, 
 the extraordinary demeanour of the prisoners, their 
 violent outbursts, and their sudden adjournments for 
 prayer caused considerable merriment. Apart from
 
 130 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 its intrinsic indecency, the case attracted additional 
 attention because, at the moment, there was nothing 
 of general interest in the newspapers. The country was 
 not in danger of war with anybody; all Mullahs were 
 inexplicably sane; diabolo and Christian Science had 
 gone out of fashion; and nothing had as yet taken 
 their place as a topic of drawing-room conversation. 
 
 So the maxims of the Yoghi and Priscilla, and the 
 strenuous cross-examination of Mr. Meyville, com- 
 pletely engrossed the public mind. Crowds besieged 
 the Old Bailey ; the court was thronged with celebrities, 
 whose presence was daily chronicled in the Press as if 
 the occasion were the premiere of a new play. One of 
 the evening papers even issued a special Yoghi edition, 
 full of bad likenesses of the prisoners, witnesses, and 
 counsel, with as much of the evidence as was printable. 
 The public took the view that the defendants were mad, 
 but that their form of insanity should be treated with 
 penal servitude for life. 
 
 At length, on Friday afternoon, the case for the 
 Crown, after occupying four days, was concluded. 
 Richard rose in a complete hush of intense interest as 
 to his line of defence. 
 
 "My lord," said he in substance, "I find myself sud- 
 denly in a position to prove that the defendants are 
 husband and wife. They cannot, therefore, be indicted 
 for conspiracy. I can give you the authorities, my 
 lord. But your lordship is well aware of them. There 
 is no other indictment on the record." 
 
 The judge was completely taken by surprise. The 
 counsel for the Crown could not assist him. 
 
 In an astounded. and indignant court, Richard proved 
 the fact that the Yoghi and Priscilla had been united 
 in holy matrimony.
 
 DEFENCE OF YOGHI AND PRISCILLA 131 
 
 Nothing could be done. Amazement reigned. The 
 judge, rightly or wrongly, directed a protesting jury 
 to return a verdict of "Not Guilty." 
 
 And Richard left the Old Bailey a celebrated man, 
 but soundly hissed by an outraged public.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CARLTON HOUSE TEREACE 
 
 ON that evening Lord Lashbridge's house in Carlton 
 House Terrace was crowded. He stood, with Pamela, 
 at the head of the double staircase receiving his guests, 
 not free from pleasure in the indescribable atmosphere 
 of excitement which proves that one's entertaining is 
 successful. A constant stream of gleaming shoulders 
 and glittering jewels and fluttering dresses passed him. 
 In most minds there was a topic of absorbing interest, 
 a subject on which ideas could be exchanged. 
 
 It adds considerably to the animation of a dance if 
 in the course of the day an event, be it even a disaster, 
 has occurred. Dowagers conversed eagerly with each 
 other. Non-dancing men, grouped about doors, whis- 
 pered items of information, for the most part entirely 
 inexact, with regard to the unpublished evidence in 
 the case of the day. Only the marriageable maidens 
 and unmarryable spinsters refrained from giving voice 
 to reflections on the trial. With cordial courtesy, Lash- 
 bridge bent over Gwendolen's hand. 
 
 "I congratulate you most heartily," he said, as 
 though she herself had conducted the defence. "But 
 you mustn't keep Mr. Meyville to yourself to-night. 
 I must introduce him to everybody who may be use- 
 ful. AH sorts of terrible people are useful to barris- 
 ters. You see I take a great interest in him for your 
 sake."
 
 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE 133 
 
 "But is he coming here to-night?" she asked in as- 
 tonishment, as a gleam of delight came into her eyes. 
 
 "Certainly. Didn't you know? At least, he ac- 
 cepted. Of course, I didn't put on the cards 'Dancing 
 and Mr. Richard Meyville.' I only asked him the other 
 night at your house." 
 
 The happiness so palpably shining in her face pre- 
 cluded the supposition that her ignorance of his move- 
 ments was caused by an estrangement. 
 
 Failing that, she certainly had her host's sympathy. 
 She expressed her desire to see Richard. So Lash- 
 bridge kept her by his side in order that she might 
 meet him immediately on his arrival. Wilfred passed 
 on to report his condition to friends and acquaintances. 
 In the intervals of receiving his guests, Lashbridge 
 talked gaily to Gwendolen. 
 
 "Your husband," he said smiling, "is getting more 
 and more medical. I really think Mr. Meyville faces his 
 prescriptions nobly. But will it last? You know that 
 Lord Snelbody was compelled to break it off with Lady 
 Snelbody because Freegrove could talk nothing but 
 golf." ' 
 
 "I think that a husband should have a hobby some- 
 thing to occupy his mind." 
 
 "Perhaps. Hobbies for Husbands, brought out in 
 a convenient and not too costly form, would be a use- 
 ful hand-book. But, as a matter of fact, being a hus- 
 band at all ought to be a most engrossing hobby; I 
 mean being a husband to a charming woman." And 
 he bowed. 
 
 "I've always heard, Lord Lashbridge, that you were 
 a great success as a husband." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I think I may say so. I was much com- 
 plimented. But I gave my mind to it. Still, in our
 
 134 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 day the art of being a husband seems completely lost. 
 We have no husbands, no painters, no architects now- 
 adays. But I hear that our co-respondents are quite 
 admirable. It should be the object of all thinking 
 women to marry co-respondents." 
 
 "But, unfortunately, you cannot get a character 
 with a co-respondent as you can with a cook." 
 
 "Ah, Monkey Brand, my dear fellow, how are you? 
 Let me introduce the Marchese di Fedine. You will 
 find the Marquis a most dangerous acquaintance." 
 
 The Ambassador, a tiny man, wonderfully bald, ap- 
 parently with three huge black eyebrows so thick 
 that they seemed to be made of chenille the third on 
 his upper lip, was the most completely dressed man 
 in the world. His gold eyeglass, worn in his right eye, 
 was balanced by the huge "Galloway" Malmaison in the 
 lapel of his coat. Buttonholes were not worn at the 
 time. But the Marquis wore everything. So conspicu- 
 ously ornate was he that "Sem" had caricatured him 
 with two buttonholes and a couple of single eye-glasses. 
 He was a brilliantly clever man, and immensely popu- 
 lar in the best Society both Royal and Hebrew 
 which is very much the same thing. 
 
 Volubly he began: 
 
 "Delightful. I adore this house. It is a palace that 
 is also a home. There is an atmosphere that one finds 
 nowhere else. One sees a difference. What is it? I 
 don't know." 
 
 Gwendolen smiled. 
 
 "Look round," she said, "don't you notice anything 
 strange ?" 
 
 "No, assuredly. But I detect the absence of some- 
 thing. But what? I am puzzled." 
 
 "Do you see any eagle noses?"
 
 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE 135 
 
 Lashbridge, who had overheard this conversation, 
 laughed. 
 
 "There isn't a Jew in the place. I don't like them. 
 They are not the right shape. They are not neces- 
 sary." 
 
 "You amaze me," said the Marquis diplomatically. 
 Nothing is more pleasant than to feel that one has 
 amazed a Diplomat, for Ambassadors affect universal 
 knowledge. 
 
 "Lord Lashbridge," Gwendolen explained, "is the 
 last of the Anti-Semites." 
 
 "I would willingly become the President of a Soci- 
 ety for the Revival of Jew-Baiting in this country," 
 said Lashbridge. "Things are going too far. It is 
 even maintained that the lions on the Royal Standard 
 are the lions of Judah, and that our next ironclad is 
 to be called H.M.S. 'Moses.' Still, I'm afraid 
 I'm before my time. It will only be when the Jews 
 buy up the land that the English will wake to their 
 peril." 
 
 "Eh?" answered the Marquis, "but you have made 
 one exception to your rule. Isn't that Theo Roths- 
 child over there?" 
 
 "But he is not a Jew," said Gwendolen. 
 "Surely an ancestor of his founded the fortune of his 
 house by doing a deal in crucifixion seats !" exclaimed 
 the Marquis. "Whenever a popular execution took 
 place in Judea he bought up the best seats." 
 
 "Nothing of the sort," Gwendolen explained. "That 
 is a mere myth. His real name is Robinson. But he 
 changed it in order to have some chance of making 
 money on the Stock Exchange." 
 
 Di Fedine, somewhat mystified and aggrieved, said 
 to Lashbridge:
 
 136 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "For an Englishman, it seems to me that your dis- 
 like of the Jews is absolutely unpatriotic." 
 
 Then he led Gwendolen to the ball-room. A cele- 
 brated expert in women, he showed plainly that he ad- 
 mired her. He was one of those foreigners with whom 
 the cult of women is a substitute for athletics. His 
 admiration pleased Gwendolen, for it convinced her that 
 she should assuredly find favour in her lover's sight. 
 
 Voluble and witty, Di Fedine talked choses et autres, 
 and under the spell of his animated conversation his 
 ugliness seemed to vanish and become merely an at- 
 tractive mannerism. She began to understand his won- 
 derful success with women. But he noticed, consid- 
 erably to his annoyance, that her eyes were furtively 
 directed to the door, and he interpreted these glances : 
 
 "Can it be possible that he keeps you waiting? It 
 is unforgivable. No, there he is !" 
 
 At that moment she caught sight of Richard in the 
 centre of a group of men. 
 
 "What makes you think ?" 
 
 "Am I right? I hope so. In this event I congratu- 
 late you both. I was in the Court to-day, and I won- 
 dered what sort of woman he loved. As he came in, he 
 saw us. He did not look as though he liked me enough 
 to leave me money in his will. It is therefore clear that 
 he loves you. Voila tout!. Simple, is it not? But I 
 am keeping him away. He is saying to himself, 'Tiens, 
 who is the ugly devil talking to the beautiful Mrs. 
 Ainslie?' There is a proverb all about me in this coun- 
 try. Your young men say 'Beauty and the Beast!' 
 always. But I make comical pleasantry and reply, 
 'No, mon cher, I'm not so good-looking as all that, and 
 I must beg of you not to make insult of the lady in 
 my presence,' Co, ce n'est pas banal?"
 
 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE 137 
 
 Gwendolen complimented him on the comicality of 
 the pleasantry he had made, and saw, much to her an- 
 noyance, that more men were clustering around Rich- 
 ard. Amongst them Lord Essie Marriott, a young 
 man who waggled as he walked, was obviously telling 
 the barrister all about the case. 
 
 "Essie is a Middlesex man, is he not?" asked the 
 Marquis. 
 
 "I have no conception where he was born," she an- 
 swered, fanning herself languidly ; and he did not pur- 
 sue the matter. With great pleasure, Gwendolen no- 
 ticed that people were pointing her lover out to one 
 another. But she realised that his celebrity was keep- 
 ing him away from her. This, she felt, with an almost 
 pleasant pang, was symbolically ominous. 
 
 The Marquis continued to prattle. She hardly heard 
 him. Would Richard never come? At last he crossed 
 the room, and she introduced him to Di Fedine, who, 
 with the air of one who is privileged to share a secret, 
 no matter how public, immediately withdrew, after 
 cordial congratulations. With a sigh of complete hap- 
 piness Richard sat down by her. His eyes shone 
 brightly, and a smile was on his lips. The miracle of 
 success was upon him. 
 
 "I have just seen Wilfred. He is leaving, and he 
 asked me to take you home. May I?" 
 
 "Of course. Excuse my pressing your hand but 
 I'm so, so glad to see you again. It's over a week. 
 You've become famous. And you've forgotten your 
 Queen of Kittens." 
 
 "Never, my God, never!" he answered, fervently 
 pressing her hand. Then he smiled. "It was awfully 
 kind of you to put your glove in my waste-paper basket. 
 That was the sweetest thing you have ever done."
 
 138 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 The fact that he still took delight in the merest tri- 
 vialities of affection proved to her that he was com- 
 pletely in love. 
 
 "And I have been jealous," she said, as though mak- 
 ing a confession. 
 
 "My darling, you're as perfect as it's possible for a 
 frail woman to be," he answered smiling. "I forgive 
 you all your faults. If you like being jealous, I sha'n't 
 stand in your way. But I won't do anything simply to 
 make you jealous." 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "Not this side of Jordan. I'm longing to kiss you." 
 
 "I'm still your favourite person?" 
 
 "I worship you." 
 
 She could feel his breath on her neck as he whis- 
 pered : 
 
 "It's a week since I've kissed you." 
 
 "It seems more." 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Kindly do not cross-examine me. Will you come 
 in to supper?" 
 
 "On one condition. That you take me home im- 
 mediately after." 
 
 He gladly granted her terms. But Lashbridge would 
 not let him go. He must be introduced to Lord Wilt- 
 shire, an honour impossible to decline. Introduction 
 led to introduction. Only at half-past three, when it 
 was too late for him to go to Green Street, did they 
 leave Carlton House Terrace. This was a great dis- 
 appointment to Gwendolen. But his tenderness to her 
 as she nestled at his side in the motor, formed something 
 of a consolation. 
 
 Noiselessly the electric brougham glided through the 
 empty streets.
 
 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE 139 
 
 "This is happiness," she said, in a whisper of con- 
 tentment. "You are so wonderful and so clever. You 
 make me afraid. Say that we shall always be happy, 
 darling?" 
 
 "Always and always." 
 
 "But you don't tell me that often enough. I don't 
 think you quite realise what an exquisite joy it is for 
 a woman to be. told that she is loved. I like to be told 
 it again and again, because I know that you have 
 never lied to me. And I'm sure you never will. You 
 couldn't look me in the eyes and say that you were 
 still the same if another woman were taking you 
 away ?" 
 
 "There will never be another woman. Besides loving 
 you, I like you. It seems a commonplace sort of thing 
 to say, little girl. But passion is all the better for be- 
 ing founded on common-sense." 
 
 "No, it isn't. That's just where you're wrong. If 
 common-sense told you that it was imprudent for you 
 to love a married woman and I am married in a way, 
 you know would you break it off?" 
 
 Although she knew there was but one answer possi- 
 ble, she attached great importance to his answer. She 
 scented danger to herself lurking in his success. 
 
 "And I want to say this for myself, Richard. I 
 haven't stood in your way up till now. And I must ask 
 you to remember that when common-sense begins to say 
 horrid things about me." 
 
 "My darling, there is no danger. You are indis- 
 pensable to me." 
 
 The word "indispensable" gave her more pleasure 
 than a million compliments or words of loving praise. 
 It was a "common-sense" declaration. But anxious 
 as she was to be reassured of his affection, she took
 
 140 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 equal pleasure in dilating upon the depth of her love 
 for him. 
 
 "Without you I couldn't exist. If you were to tire 
 of me I should kill myself I should die." 
 
 All women who have loved have made this statement, 
 firmly believing in its truth. The miracle of love has 
 come into their lives. By love they live. And without 
 love they are assured that death follows automatically; 
 for their consolation there is no prudent proverb, 
 pointing out in proverbial fashion the eternal truth 
 of the absolutely obvious. The fact that a woman 
 has loved one man proves her capacity for loving 
 another. Primarily, we are in love with love ; in a 
 secondary degree with another person. Qui a aime, 
 aimera. 
 
 She persisted : 
 
 "You must never give me up. You have taught me 
 love. Each has learnt love from the other. It would 
 be treason for you to abandon me." 
 
 "There is no fear for the future, my darling. Every- 
 thing is going well with me and it is all through you.'* 
 
 He spoke very tenderly under the spell of her beauty, 
 her tenderness. 
 
 "You will never, never give me up not for any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Who was it," he laughed, with his arm about her, 
 "who discovered that a woman was a cross between an 
 angel and an idiot? Which are you chiefly?" 
 
 "I was an angel once. I may be an idiot later. But 
 I'm a woman now. Don't you notice it ?" 
 
 Glorying in her self-surrender, she threw her arms 
 about him, and covered his lips with kisses. Her cloak 
 had slipped from her shoulders, and the gleaming white 
 of her skin held him rigid with emotion.
 
 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE 141 
 
 "There has never been anything so sweet in all the 
 world," he said, between the kisses. He breathed her 
 perfume. "You are wonderful, and I worship you." 
 
 He turned out the light in the silence she felt that 
 his love was altogether hers.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MRS. AINSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP 
 
 THE next day Richard was installed in his new cham- 
 bers at No. 14 Essex Court. With almost paternal 
 pride, Moseley pointed to the shelves, well-filled with 
 imposing volumes, admirably selected. There were two 
 rows of handsome leather bindings which at once at- 
 tracted Richard's eye. The clerk, in reply to a ques- 
 tioning glance, answered: 
 
 "No, sir, they aren't any use. They're completely 
 out of date. But they make a capital show a sort of 
 shop window, so to speak. Three pounds the lot I paid 
 for them. But the other books are all up to date, and I 
 managed to get them very, very cheap." 
 
 A rich but sombre carpet lay on the floor beneath 
 a couple of good tables and a set of solid chairs in black 
 oak and red leather. 
 
 "Second-hand," said Moseley, in a tone that implied 
 a compliment. On one table lay four bulky briefs repre- 
 senting fees of over three hundred guineas. They 
 came from firms of very high standing. 
 
 "Not so bad to begin with, sir." 
 
 "Bad, by Jove! It's wonderful, John. Absolutely 
 wonderful !" 
 
 New enthusiasm kindled in his eyes. He now occu- 
 pied a firm position from which to attack the citadel of 
 success. He felt that he was surrounded by the acces- 
 sories necessary to and in themselves indicative of a 
 considerable legal personality. From that table opin-
 
 MRS. AIXSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP 143 
 
 ions contrary to those of consulting attorneys could 
 be delivered with weight. By stretching out a hand 
 from his chair he could seize the exact volume necessary 
 to refute their theories. The stage was set, and he had 
 no sort of doubt but that he could admirably sustain 
 his part. Though neither of the brothers suspected it, 
 the barrister and the actor were very much alike in tem- 
 perament. Each had a longing, not only for success, 
 but for its symbols. 
 
 "There's one thing I wanted to speak to you about, 
 sir. I found a lot of rubbish in one of your drawers. 
 I've put it in this box. I suppose it may as well be 
 thrown away." 
 
 Richard examined a curious mixture: old pipes, old 
 letters, decrepit penholders, ineffective pencil-cases. 
 
 "Most of these can be thrown away. Ah, no," he 
 pensively said, as he took up a lady's white glove, very 
 dirty at the fingers, "I'll keep that." 
 
 He did not, while rescuing Gwendolen's glove, notice 
 the clerk's inquiring glance, that belied the amused 
 twitch of his mouth. 
 
 "And this old collar." 
 
 "You can't want that, sir!" 
 
 "Yes, it's marked N. C.' It belonged to Neill 
 Cream, the murderer, the man who collected corpses of 
 women, just as children collect postage stamps. This 
 revolver, too, I want ; and there are the cartridges that 
 go with it. The thing was given to me by old Crowder, 
 the coroner, a friend of my father's. It is in a filthy 
 state. Have it cleaned up. The revolver was a per- 
 quisite of his. Some poor devil committed suicide with 
 it. I was at Maryborough at the time, and I remember 
 that this revolver was the first thing that made me take 
 an interest in crime."
 
 144 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "But," cried Moseley in alarm, "you are not think- 
 ing of doing much at the Criminal Bar! There's no 
 money in it, sir." 
 
 "Crime is the most interesting subject that exists. 
 The respectable, the wealthy, the aristocratic criminal 
 is now playing a very leading part in our lives. To 
 make a success at the Common Law Bar a man must 
 have a sound knowledge of the criminal side. Look at 
 Russell, and Clarke, and Willie Mathews, and Charlie 
 Gill. You may take it for granted that in most im- 
 portant civil cases one of the parties, plaintiff or de- 
 fendant, petitioner or co-respondent, ought to be in the 
 dock, and you've got to know." 
 
 He held out his hand, and there was emotion in his 
 voice : 
 
 "Thank you, John, a thousand times. I think you've 
 made me." 
 
 "I fancy we shall do fairly well, sir, in these cham- 
 bers." 
 
 Thus the contract of partnership was clinched. 
 
 But the clerk, as he went out of the room, felt 
 something of dissatisfaction at the objects which his 
 master had seen fit to retain out of the rubbish 
 heap. 
 
 "I wonder who the woman is," he reflected. "It 
 wasn't an old glove, and it hadn't been cleaned. I sup- 
 pose it's going on still, whatever it was." 
 
 He had noticed that nobody had been practising 
 mathematics on the inside. 
 
 He decided to consult Jubb. 
 
 A few days afterwards he met that shambling fellow 
 in Essex Court. Now it happened that in addition 
 to his other great gifts, Moseley was a master of the 
 t art of when and how to stand drinks.
 
 MRS. AINSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP 145 
 
 "Mr. Jubb," said he, "if you happen to be so dis- 
 posed, will you come to the 'Devereux Arms'?" 
 
 "I was just thinking of having a 'tiddley' myself," 
 Jubb answered, finding himself not altogether unex- 
 pectedly so disposed. 
 
 Persons of Bacchanalian tendencies always call alco- 
 hol by an alias. 
 
 They allude to drinking bouts by flippant nicknames. 
 It is possible that by this practice they are convinced 
 that they consume only temperance beverages, and are, 
 themselves, teetotalers. In the somewhat dismal bar- 
 parlour of the "Devereux," Moseley found that Jubb 
 behaved as a man with a grievance. 
 
 "What do you want, a millionaire like you, to come 
 back to business and take the bread out of other people's 
 mouths ?" 
 
 The exaggeration of his language was intended to 
 disguise his bitterness at the loss of Meyville. 
 
 "What bread? How much was he making with you? 
 Nothing." 
 
 "Ah, but I gave him his start. I got him that Yoghi 
 case." 
 
 Moseley smiled at the palpable lie. 
 
 The other moodily continued, tapping the bar-coun- 
 ter with his glass: 
 
 "And now he's made a hit ! In a year or so he'll be 
 the fashion. The papers are full of him now pictures 
 and what not and Society gossip. I tell you he's 
 being boomed like a hair-restorer or a music-hall singer. 
 He's as bad as well, we won't mention no names. We 
 don't need to, Mr. Moseley, both of us being in the 
 know." 
 
 "How's he being boomed? Who's doing it? No 
 such thing."
 
 146 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Now, look here, Mr. Moseley, what is there in this 
 Yoghi case to make all this fuss about ? Anybody could 
 have done what he did. Of course, the case was so dis- 
 gusting that it hit the public taste. But it's not the 
 case nor yet the Yoghi that people talk about. It's him 
 Mr. Richard Meyville here, Mr. Richard Meyville 
 there. Photo of ditto in wig and gown; ditto in a 
 fancy vest. Lord, it makes me sick, all this Barnum 
 business. Yes, I will have another special Scotch, and 
 soda to match. Yours a small soda ! You never was a 
 sportsman." 
 
 There are people who regard the consumption of 
 drink as a branch of sport. They also look upon the 
 loss of money by the backing of their unfounded 'fan- 
 cies' in the same light. 
 
 "All that doesn't show who's doing the booming," 
 said Moseley. "I shouldn't go about talking such non- 
 sense if I were you. I shouldn't indeed." 
 
 "Oh, you'd suffer in silence if you was me, would you ? 
 You'd let somebody come and take away the man you've 
 made; mind you, made, and set him up in fine style! 
 And fill the papers with his pictures, just as though 
 he was Seymour Hicks, and say nothing about it ! 
 Well, I'm human, and I don't mind confessing it in this 
 very bar-parlour. Meyville was my ewe-lamb, as the 
 saying is, and that infernal trollop took him away." 
 
 "Who are you calling a trollop now, Mr. Jubb?" 
 
 "Well, we needn't mention names, you not being in 
 the know." 
 
 "It's all moonshine. He is not that sort. This .is all 
 spite." 
 
 "Oh, is it? Doesn't she drive up in her carriage and 
 pair? Isn't she ringing up on the telephone '2835 
 Mayfair' all day, till I'm sick of it?"
 
 MRS. AINSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP U7 
 
 "Oh, that's her number ? '2835 May fair'!" Moseley 
 triumphantly said. "We'll see all about this trollop 
 and no mistake. And what's more, I don't like your 
 tone, Mr. Jubb, and my governor won't like it either. 
 And your governor won't be too well pleased when he 
 hears the full facts, which he will do if you go about 
 scandal-mongering any more, and don't you forget it." 
 
 Moseley loomed large over the miserable little man. 
 
 "Oh, don't be too hard on a fellow when he's down." 
 
 "So you're down, are you? Well, mopping whisky 
 all day, and telling lies about 'ewe-lambs' won't get 
 you up in the world, so don't think it." 
 
 "I'm not as young as I was, Mr. Moseley," pleaded 
 the other hopelessly. 
 
 "Oh, now it's your lost youth and beauty is it? 
 What's the truth about 2835 Mayfair? Who is she?" 
 
 Jubb seemed on the point of shedding tears of alco- 
 hol as he blurted out: 
 
 "She's Mrs. Ainslie and lives in Green Street and 
 she called me a caretaker and I ought to have 
 answered something bitter and sarcastic. But she was 
 so beautiful that you'll hardly believe it the words 
 didn't somehow come." 
 
 "What's she like?" 
 
 "You know the sort, all hats and veils and things 
 that jingle more like a respondent than anything else, 
 I should say or, perhaps, an intervener now I come 
 to think of it I should say, Mr. Moseley, judging by 
 appearances not that one should rightly judge by 
 appearances, that she's married." 
 
 "What makes you think she's married?" 
 
 "Well, she's Mrs., ain't she?" 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing nowadays, Mr. Jubb." 
 
 "I saw her wedding-ring when she took her glove off."
 
 148 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Why did she do that?" 
 
 "She threw the glove in the waste-paper basket." 
 
 Here, indeed, was light. John pursued the subject: 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "She happened to touch something in the chambers, 
 and it happened to be dirty." 
 
 "Yes, you saw to that. Trust you for dirt. But 
 she may be a widow." 
 
 An alliance with a wealthy widow would have met 
 with John's complete and entire approval. 
 
 "I looked her up in the Court Guide. And there is 
 a Mr. Ainslie. To be sure, our Court Guide is three 
 years old. A great deal can happen in three years. 
 We are here to-day, Mr. Moseley, and gone to-mor- 
 row," he sadly said. 
 
 "Oh, don't you worry about that. You'll be in the 
 Devereux Arms till it falls down. Do you know any 
 more?" 
 
 "No, I only saw her once. But I've heard a deal of 
 talk on the telephone soft talk, as one might say. 
 Still, it's my belief that she's more in love with him 
 than he with her. But that don't need to make any 
 difference. It was the same with me and my missus." 
 
 "Never mind about that," said Moseley, who had 
 caught a nod from Durham's ultra-shrewd and over- 
 dressed clerk. "You get back to Chambers, and if 
 there are any briefs come in for us this afternoon, 
 mind you send them on." 
 
 "How many more do you want? Three came in this 
 morning. It's awful to see the work go away all 
 from first-class solicitors Godfrey's and such like. It's 
 taking the bread out of my mouth, Mr. Moseley, it is 
 indeed." 
 
 The notice of Richard's removal had not yet been
 
 MRS. AINSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP 149 
 
 put up at 10 Essex Court, and the unfortunate Jubb 
 opened the door to brief-bearing clerks, and from the 
 window mournfully watched them across the court to 
 No. 14. 
 
 When he had shambled out, Durham's clerk ap- 
 proached Moseley. 
 
 "I was on my way to your place. I've got rather 
 a good thing for your governor." 
 
 "We're not laying ourselves out for criminal work. 
 Our line is Common Law and Parliamentary." 
 
 "Oh, we do consent to go into Court if we're pressed ? 
 Do we draw the line at a cause celebre?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Lord Islington." 
 
 "Nonsense; he fled the country, and you know as 
 well as I do that the Treasury has decided not to 
 prosecute peers or dignitaries of the Church for that 
 sort of thing. He was given the 'office' and cleared 
 out in time. And no wonder. According to all 
 accounts, he was right, because his was a devilish bad 
 case." 
 
 Durham's clerk acceded: 
 
 "It was." 
 
 The accentuation could not be accidental. 
 
 Immediately Moseley understood. In a low voice 
 he asked: 
 
 "All the witnesses out of the country?" 
 
 "For the last week we've been doing a big export 
 business. Islington will have to pay my boss 2,000 
 guineas for well, holiday trips for these coves." 
 
 His hands suggested the infinite. Then he added: 
 
 "We've always acted for the brute in his little trou- 
 bles. And we've done this pretty neatly. The case 
 for the prosecution is well, it's in different parts of
 
 150 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 different continents. Now before the Treasury get 
 wind of this and withdraw the warrant, Islington sur- 
 renders. He says, 'What have you against me? Let 
 us hear all about it. I have been abroad for my health. 
 Directly I am well enough, you see me here. Do your 
 worst.' The Treasury will be able to do nothing. But 
 Islington's case was so notorious that they had to 
 pretend to do something." 
 
 Moseley's face expressed no surprise or other emo- 
 tion. 
 
 The solicitor's clerk persisted: 
 
 "Will your governor be at the police-court, Marl- 
 borough Street, to-morrow at eleven?" 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Five guineas." 
 
 "This is my busy day. When I want real humour I 
 go to a music-hall." 
 
 "Five guineas for five minutes ! It'll be a smash up, 
 I tell you. How much will you do it for ?" 
 
 "Fifty." 
 
 "You're the funny man now." 
 
 "I tell you we don't want to do it at all. We're 
 not going to specialise in this sort of work." 
 
 "The Yoghi wasn't altogether a dream of fair 
 women, was it?" 
 
 "I tell you we don't want this sort of thing. We 
 can pick and choose." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose you want to be standing Counsel to 
 a Kindergarten." 
 
 "There's a lot of difference between a Kindergar- 
 ten and Islington." 
 
 The other laughed. "I'll give you fifty," he said. 
 
 Moseley had asked a prohibitive, a preposterous 
 price. He did not want Richard to do the work. On
 
 MRS. AINSLIE AND THE PARTNERSHIP 151 
 
 the other hand, Lord Islington, a Jew of immense 
 wealth, knowing that he was about to reestablish his 
 good name, and appreciating the vast amount of inter- 
 est centred in Richard, had wired from Paris to have 
 him retained. He wished to rehabilitate himself with 
 as much publicity as possible. To be represented by 
 Durham, whose reputation for crafty walking in devi- 
 ous ways was almost unique, would have been ill-advised. 
 
 "All right. Come round and see the governor. He'll 
 give you five minutes." 
 
 "Will he? Do I enter on my knees and sing a sim- 
 ple hymn of praise? Please put me up to any tips." 
 
 John did not reply to the sarcasm. He was won- 
 dering what effect Mrs. Ainslie would have on the part- 
 nership.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE 
 
 THREE days after Ethel's presentation, Richard and 
 Billy were seated in the dining-room at Gloucester 
 Terrace. The conditions under which they dined were 
 infinitely less unfavourable than those that charac- 
 terised the previous entertainment. For Lady Mey- 
 ville and Ethel the excitement of the Drawing-room 
 had proved a delight. It was clear that Billy was 
 really in love. True, his love was boisterous and bla- 
 tant, but obviously he was devoted to Ethel. Out of 
 business-hours he was always with her, at dinners, 
 theatres, dances. Saturdays and Sundays were spent 
 at Raningham, of which he was a member, or on the 
 river. In the duties of a fiance no one could have been 
 more efficient than he. 
 
 Also, Richard had modified his attitude on those few 
 occasions when he met Billy. He himself having secured 
 another unpopular success in the affair of Lord Isling- 
 ton, had considerably increased his popularity with 
 clients. After the whirling life of the Law Courts, he 
 spent most of his evenings with Gwendolen. At all 
 "first nights" they were together. Gwendolen received 
 invitations to dine, "with poor Mr. Ainslie, if he is 
 well enough if not, do come yourself. We are asking 
 Mr. Meyville." Their "friendship" was "accepted," 
 except by those unfortunate persons whose "friend- 
 ships" were "misinterpreted." For this comfortable 
 state of things, their own personal popularity, their 
 good looks and high spirits, were, in the main, respon-
 
 THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE 153 
 
 sible. Still, no doubt Mr. Ainslie's Monologues on 
 Maladies had also procured much sympathy for the 
 happy couple. Also, Lashbridge and Pamela were very 
 kind. The four were frequently seen dining at the Ritz, 
 and afterwards at a theatre. 
 
 An indiscreet paragraph in The Morning Star, to 
 the effect that "Last night Lord Lashbridge was enter- 
 taining Mr. and Mrs. Richard Meyville at Prince's 
 Restaurant," really expressed the accepted view of the 
 situation. There was an agreeable touch of prophecy 
 about it. The duty of the Society chronicler is to be 
 in advance of the amateur scandalmonger. For Rich- 
 ard the experience of the last few weeks had been 
 delightful. He enjoyed to the full the wonderful pleas- 
 ure that comes to him who wears the laurels of Fame in 
 his youth. No longer did new friends, intelligently 
 scrutinising his shorn face, hazard the question, "You 
 are at the Bar, I suppose?" The mention of his name 
 was always received with a quickening look of interest. 
 Young, handsome, beloved to the utmost of his desire, 
 all was well with Richard. 
 
 As he sat at the table in the fulness of postprandial 
 satisfaction, he took a not unkindly interest in William 
 Brinstable. A new cook, a non-adherent to the Hydrau- 
 lic School of British Cookery, had been installed in 
 Gloucester Terrace. Admirable port, of Richard's 
 selection, was upon the table. They were both smoking 
 Cortina Mora cigars. The "after-dinner feeling" was 
 upon them. Strange types, strangely united, these 
 future brothers-in-law. Each presented a perfect pic- 
 ture of contentment, completely satisfied in mind and 
 body. Richard, sleek, alert, with that touch of the 
 ascetic necessary to the complete enjoyment of each 
 faculty, eager and keen as an undrawn sword; Billy,
 
 154 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 bulbous from the good things of the past, puffing out 
 smoke at the altar of the Future. 
 
 His very appearance was reassuring, and Richard, 
 overwhelmed by the optimism of prosperity, sought 
 to brush from his mind all misgivings as to his stout 
 companion. 
 
 "Another glass of wine Billy." 
 
 It was the first time that he had used the diminutive 
 to describe his portly guest. 
 
 "Right oh! Good wine needs no bush. But Billy 
 needs good wine," he answered with a cheeriness so 
 genuine that it was not actually unpleasant. 
 
 "Dick, old boy, I've taken that house in Tilney 
 Street," he said, pouring out the port ; "it's small, but 
 it's smart devilish smart. One minute from Stan- 
 hope Gate. The neatest little crib in all May fair." 
 
 And he lay back with satisfaction, giving full play 
 to his adiposity. 
 
 Richard regarded his stoutness attentively. It 
 mystified him. The development was not comic. It 
 was not actually coarse. Under what classification, 
 other than that of unnecessary things, did it come? 
 He tried to compel himself to admit that it stood for 
 respectability. This pre-middle-aged corpulence, he 
 thought, might perhaps be the trade-mark of stability. 
 No man of forty who had a care in the world could 
 carry his fat with such complete complacency. 
 
 "I was in two minds about taking the house yester- 
 day, because of the premium," he said ; "but Ethel was 
 all for it; she loves it; and, bless her, she deserves all 
 that Billy can provide, and you may tell her I said so. 
 But, damn it, when I looked up the fashionable intel- 
 ligence in The Morning Post, and saw that on the 29th 
 of this month she is to be Mrs. Bill, I drove down to the
 
 THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE 155 
 
 agent's and took the house. But I got 'em to cut the 
 premium down one-third, as a wedding present to little 
 Bill, on whom you may note there are no flies not a 
 fly per acre." 
 
 "Pretty expensive to keep up?" 
 
 "What does it matter? Business is booming. We've 
 got hold of a lot of new things, amongst others two 
 gilt-edged prospectuses, things as safe as Trust Funds. 
 No dividends of one, decimal 34726 for Venables, 
 Hampton and Brinstable. Don't think it. Funny 
 this. I don't wish to boast. I'm blunt, but I bar bom- 
 bast. Still, I can't help feeling that I've brought 
 good luck all round. Where were you before I met you ? 
 God knows. Now you can take silk next year, if you 
 like. I'm not flattering you, Dick, old boy, but your rise 
 has been miraculous. Montie, after a shoal of failures, 
 has got a winner. And Ethel well, she's got me" 
 
 Laughing heartily, he clapped his hand on Richard's 
 shoulder with such violence as to amount almost to. 
 assault and battery. When Richard had recovered, 
 the hearty man continued: 
 
 "I don't want to be egotistical about being a mas- 
 cot, but Billy has the best luck of any of you. He's 
 got the best girl in this rotund orb to wife as the 
 saying is. She's got to be treated like a princess 
 only more so. She's got to have everything she wants. 
 And, further, she's got to want everything Billy can 
 
 get. Directly she said she cared for me Do I 
 
 bore you? People hate being told home-truths about 
 their sisters. Directly she said she cared for me, I 
 began to look round. And I said to myself, 'Billy, my 
 boy, she's done you a devilish good turn. You're ugly 
 and it must be admitted you are perhaps a little 
 vulgar.' That's what I said."
 
 156 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Richard negatived the suggestion, but Billy was 
 firm. 
 
 "I am vulgar," he said. "I'm fat. I'm red. Damn 
 it, I'm devilish vulgar so devilish vulgar that I ought 
 to be devilish rich. That's the only thing that you 
 can do with a shape like mine. Make it symbolic. 
 Until I met Ethel, I was content with catering for Billy 
 in a small way. But directly I found she was in love 
 with me, I saw I was out of the picture. We don't 
 match. She's well, she's a pearl o' price. And I 
 well, in appearance I'm a bit porcine. So I bestirred 
 myself. I looked round. I took thought for the mor- 
 row. The business was in my hands. And I've worked 
 wonders. Everything is going deuced well and will go 
 better. And I've got to thank Ethel for it, from A to 
 Z and back again. She's made Billy what he is, and 
 what he will be, God bless her." 
 
 The quaint, confidential jargon, the amorous, semi- 
 alcoholic excitement and the self-appreciating egotism 
 of the man were not without their fascination for Rich- 
 ard. Billy was a personality; and to a personality 
 much may be forgiven. Also, a personality is generally 
 successful. Originally Richard had regarded him as a 
 monstrous burlesque. But Billy stood out firm, clear, 
 and distinct a comprehensive character. Two facts, 
 though overlooked by him, had contributed to this 
 result. They were subjective and objective. Richard 
 was a huge success. Billy was devotedly attached to 
 Ethel. 
 
 At this moment, the door opened, and Lady Meyville, 
 followed by Ethel, came into the room. In her hand 
 was an opened telegram. 
 
 "Oh, this is too bad, Richard. We must postpone 
 the wedding."
 
 THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE 157 
 
 "What !" shouted Billy, magenta with emotion, "who 
 has the infernal ' 
 
 "This is from Montague " 
 
 "He dares !" Richard read out the telegram. "Have 
 matinee on Wednesday, 29th. Surprised you did not 
 consult me. MONTAGUE." 
 
 Richard turned livid. 
 
 Billy subsided into his chair, heaving with fat merri- 
 ment. 
 
 "This beats all," he groaned, as the laughter sank 
 into ripples of mirth, "there will never be such impu- 
 dence again on God's fair earth. The thing ought to 
 be published if only there was a comic paper in this 
 country." 
 
 "I don't know what you're laughing at, William. 
 You see, he has signed the telegram 'Montague' instead 
 of 'Montie.' He must be very much annoyed." 
 
 Lady Meyville's sense of the ridiculous had never 
 been stirred by any action of her eldest son's. 
 
 Ethel, on whose face there was no trace of anxiety 
 or sorrow, charming in a dinner dress of turquoise-blue, 
 came to the rescue with a rashness not altogether devoid 
 of grim humour. 
 
 "I think we should fix the wedding for the day after 
 Montie is knighted." 
 
 Puzzled, Lady Meyville sought a defence : 
 
 "Montie will lose a lot of money if the matinee is 
 postponed." 
 
 "My dear mother, we can't ask him to do that," said 
 Richard, gravely; "we shall lose money, too, if the 
 wedding is postponed." 
 
 "The invitations have been sent out. How much are 
 wedding-cards a dozen?" asked Ethel, sarcastically. 
 
 "We must find out, old girl," Billy answered, "and
 
 158 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 he can deduct the out-of-pocket expenses from his wed- 
 ding present." 
 
 But Richard could not control his indignation to the 
 extent of commenting upon the matter. 
 
 "Do you think he means it as a joke?" inquired Billy, 
 seeking vainly for a solution. 
 
 "No, he doesn't. He never means anything as a 
 joke. He is a joke. He is the worst sort the uncon- 
 scious brand." 
 
 The other announced : 
 
 "This man ought to be kicked." 
 
 Richard entirely agreed with him. 
 
 Incipient Anti-Montaguism formed a bond of sym- 
 pathy between the two. 
 
 Richard went to his mother's writing-desk, took out 
 a telegraph form, and wrote : 
 
 "Do not postpone matinee on any account. I have 
 no wish to see the piece again. ETHEL." 
 
 The telegram did not find favour in Lady Meyville's 
 eyes, but the others were amused. The message was 
 despatched. 
 
 Under these circumstances it was that Richard called 
 upon his brother in Park Place, early on the following 
 morning. He found the actor in bed. 
 
 "Confound it; don't pull up the blind," was his 
 greeting. 
 
 Montague turned on the electric light, shaded by 
 daintily becoming pink silk. Immediately Richard 
 found himself in a sort of National Portrait Gallery 
 of Contemporary Female Beauty. 
 
 Panels, cabinets, miniatures were there in rich pro- 
 fusion. But in the faint light he recognised the artists 
 more easily than the sitters. On sumptuous staircases 
 were the works of Lafayette ; Alfred Ellis dealt chiefly
 
 THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE 159 
 
 with ladies who were looking over their shoulders to 
 avoid contiguous palm-trees; while Alice Hughes pho- 
 tographed only ladies interested in horticulture, flower- 
 bearing, as though advertising the produce of some 
 seedsman, and Lallie Charles photographed women as 
 they believed themselves to be. 
 
 But, in spite of the pink glow, he was surprised at 
 the hard lines that were graven on his brother's face. 
 The continual application of "make-up" had exag- 
 gerated his features and made him look like a walnut; 
 with his grey hair dishevelled as he lay in bed he 
 seemed only a crude scenario of "Charles Stuart." 
 
 In the effeminate luxury of his silken surroundings 
 he suggested a decrepit dowager rather than anything 
 masculine. 
 
 "I'm so sorry you won't be able to give Ethel away," 
 he began casually, "but, after all, business is business. 
 And I suppose Art is Art." 
 
 Not yet completely in possession of his full faculties, 
 the other stroked his forehead: 
 
 "Oh, yes, I got a silly telegram from her. What 
 does it mean?" 
 
 "What do you think it means? It means that she 
 doesn't want her marriage to stand in the way of your 
 matinee. That's sisterly, isn't it?" 
 
 "That's nonsense. I must be present at my sister's 
 wedding! Who else could give her away?" 
 
 "Oh, I could do that at a pinch." 
 
 In surprise at such a proposal, Montague sat up 
 in bed, revealing extremely beautiful tartan silk 
 pyjamas. 
 
 "I'm the elder brother it's my duty." 
 
 He had looked forward to acquiring considerable 
 publicity from the marriage of his pretty sister.
 
 160 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Already he had imagined himself in a brown frock- 
 coat, trimmed, possibly, with black braid walking up 
 the aisle by her side. He had decided to make the 
 marriage a great social and artistic function ! And 
 this was his reward! He wasn't wanted! They could 
 get on without him, without Montague Cliftonville. 
 It seemed incredible. Yet so it was. 
 
 In spite of the affront he behaved nobly. 
 
 "I shall postpone the matinee," he said, as though 
 taking a decision of European importance. "But I 
 should have been consulted." 
 
 Without one word of the expected gratitude, Richard 
 asked coldly : 
 
 "What are you giving her for a wedding present?" 
 
 "Well, I've been thinking of that a good deal. You 
 see, although you are getting on very well, you can't 
 have much money in hand. Now, if I were to give her a 
 tiara, or anything like that, my present would dwarf 
 yours. Now I naturally don't want to do that. You 
 see between ourselves I'm only an actor, whilst you 
 are a member of a recognized profession. It wouldn't 
 be in good taste for me to do anything showy." 
 
 "Well, I'm only giving her two hundred pounds to 
 buy anything she likes with." 
 
 "What !" 
 
 "I know it's very little. But it's the best I can do. 
 And don't let me stand in the way of your generosity. 
 I shan't mind if you give her a tiara, and I'm sure she'd 
 like it." 
 
 Montague groaned. 
 
 "I think the best thing I can do is to give her a 
 cheque." 
 
 "For how much?" 
 
 After a pause, Montague said:
 
 THE MUNIFICENCE OF MONTAGUE 161 
 
 "To tell you the truth, old boy, money is devilish 
 tight. I've got such a lot of expenses." 
 
 "I know you're a pretty costly person. You never 
 deny yourself anything." 
 
 "Except a wife," the other alertly cried. "Except 
 a wife. If only I could afford to be married! But I 
 can't. Look at all these women," he waved dramatic- 
 ally at the photographs. "I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 I'll have a large envelope placed among the wedding 
 presents 'Cheque from Mr. Montague Cliftonville.* 
 That's what I'll do." 
 
 "But why a large envelope? Quite a big cheque can 
 go into a small envelope." 
 
 "I know, I know. That's the trouble," he answered 
 vaguely. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" 
 
 "I can't afford just now to draw a cheque for a large 
 sum, and it would be absurd for me to give her a 
 hundred or two hundred pounds. It would look mean 
 if anybody heard about it. Later, when things are 
 better, I'll do the handsome." 
 
 "You propose at present giving her a large empty 
 envelope ?" 
 
 "That's special pleading," answered the actor 
 vaguely. 
 
 Montague always regarded any unpleasant statement 
 as special pleading. 
 
 "No. I only asked you a question." 
 
 "Don't put words in my mouth." This was another 
 favourite repartee of his. 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'll do as well." 
 
 "Besides the present of stationery? Besides the 
 practical joke?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. I'll invite all the wedding party to the
 
 162 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 theatre not all, of course but a good many the 
 smartest. Say two hundred. That's a present of a 
 hundred guineas." 
 
 Alarmed at his own generosity, he shook his head: 
 
 "I doubt if my business manager will like that. I 
 doubt it very much." 
 
 As Richard went to the door he said : 
 
 "Montague, if you had a sense of humour you'd 
 amuse yourself very much." 
 
 "I wonder what the devil he means," the actor 
 thought as he turned over on his side.
 
 MONTAGUE took a great deal of trouble over his 
 sister's wedding. His advertising agent was inde- 
 fatigable. Indeed, that able assistant could not have 
 given much more publicity to the affair had it been 
 "The Chief" himself who was being married. Photo- 
 graphs of Ethel and Billy appeared in all the illus- 
 trated papers. Ladies' journals asked for the bride's 
 opinions on married life. She was invited to dilate on 
 the advantages of short engagements and long honey- 
 moons. 
 
 On the 9th July le tout Bayswater flocked to the 
 Church of St. Michael and All Sepulchres. 
 
 Montague secured the attendance of a few peers and 
 peeresses, histrionically-minded archdeacons, smart wid- 
 owettes in large hats, and the leading members of the 
 theatrical profession. 
 
 To the strains of "The Voice that breathed o'er 
 Eden," he, in an admirably cut grey frockcoat, led 
 Ethel up the aisle. There were tears in Lady Mey- 
 ville's eyes as she stood by Richard's side. 
 
 Afterwards, at the Bayswater Palace Hotel, Mon- 
 tague brought real joy to her. He behaved delight- 
 fully. So affable, indeed, was he that she ventured to 
 introduce Mrs. Bolitho and Mrs. Pegram to him. He 
 spoke quite kindly of Smelhurst, and said that it ought 
 to have a theatre. He, however, became a little restive 
 over one of Mrs. Paxton-Pryce's experiences with 
 kitchen-maids, and, to save himself, offered to introduce
 
 164 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 her to Mrs. Ainslie, who was talking to Richard. On 
 the relationship being explained, he saved the situation 
 with a compliment which was uncomplimentary to 
 Gwendolen. He said they were so much alike that he 
 felt sure they could not be related. 
 
 The actor was in great good humour. Things had 
 been going well with him. Only this morning he had 
 been informed (by one who spoke with knowledge) that 
 it was quite probable that he would next year be 
 invited to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Also, the 
 affair of the Phoenix had been amicably settled. By 
 way of compensation for the alleged affront, the editor 
 had promised to publish a special Montague Cliftonville 
 Supplement, containing pictures of the player in his 
 "greatest creations." The agreement had been put into 
 writing, and the paper was bound to do a thing which 
 it had never done before. It would be a splendid adver- 
 tisement, and would surely place him ahead of the other 
 competitors for the knighthood. 
 
 "Your brother's acting very well to-day," said Gwen- 
 dolen. 
 
 Richard laughed, as he saw Montie standing with 
 an affectionate hand on Lady Meyville's waist, whilst 
 the handsome old lady looked gratefully into his eyes. 
 "Yes, it's a good performance, Gwen. But this sort 
 of thing is natural to him. It isn't hypocrisy. He 
 always fancies himself in the presence of an audience." 
 
 "Well, I don't like it. At the garden-party last year 
 at Windsor someone said that he had kneecaps in his 
 pocket ready to kneel down and be knighted at a 
 moment's notice. Here he is again." 
 
 Graciously the actor held Gwen's hand. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Ainslie, how good of you to come! 
 How very, very good! Such a perfect dress. Ah!
 
 "AN EMINENT ACTOR'S SISTER" 165 
 
 you know how to wear your clothes. So few women, 
 even on the stage, know how to wear their clothes. 
 Ah! and the beautiful diamond and sapphire brooch 
 you gave my dear little sister quite, quite charming! 
 Very like the one I wore in the second act of Charles 
 Stuart. You may have noticed it." 
 
 Gwen looked him straight in the eyes. 
 
 "Who could help noticing any brooch you wear? 
 You wear your brooches so wonderfully well." 
 
 He smiled: 
 
 "Flatterer ! But I like people to say nice things. 
 Nice things are the dividend that " 
 
 He could not finish the epigram. "I've got the 
 scenario," he explained good-humouredly, "but I can't 
 work out the idea. When I do I'll send it you on a 
 picture postcard. I'm having some new ones done. I 
 think you'll like them." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mr. Cliftonville, so, so much." 
 
 Then confidentially, putting his hand on Richard's 
 shoulder : 
 
 "I hope he's very good to you." 
 
 "I have no complaint to make, thank you very much, 
 Mr. Cliftonville," she answered, with a twinkle of 
 amusement in her eyes. 
 
 "Montague, surely. Why don't you call me Mon- 
 tague? You know I regard you almost as a sister-in- 
 law." 
 
 Then he passed away on his quasi-regal progress 
 through the room. 
 
 "Did you tell him about us?" she asked. 
 
 "No, of course not. One can't talk to him about 
 anything but himself. It would give him physical 
 pain." 
 
 "Still, he knows about us."
 
 166 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Naturally he knows. I don't suppose there's any- 
 body here who knows you or me who doesn't know 
 about us." 
 
 There was a tender pressure on his arm as she said : 
 
 "Oh, I'm so proud, so very proud." 
 
 "Of it?" 
 
 "Of you." Radiantly she looked at him. "Oh, if 
 this was our own wedding day!" 
 
 This was the first time she had mentioned the sub- 
 ject. A sparkle of delight came into his eyes. 
 
 By way of comment she queried: 
 
 "Was that at the possibility or at the idea?" 
 
 "Both," he answered. 
 
 "Oh, you dear thing! Would you really? And at 
 my age?" 
 
 "Your age will always be the ideal age for me." 
 
 "I shall hold you to that." 
 
 "I shall compel you to. Now let's go and drink 
 Ethel's health." 
 
 On their way her notice was attracted by a little 
 woman, obviously Jewish, but pretty. She had auburn 
 hair, a pronounced nose, and wore too much powder. 
 Her grey eyes were fixed on Billy in the distance. Her 
 firm, small mouth was tight shut. Around it were lines 
 of pain. 
 
 "Look at that," said Gwen, "there's a tragedy in 
 that face. She's suffering. She's interested in the 
 bridegroom interested in a sinister way." 
 
 "Nonsense!" laughed Richard. "The fact that a 
 man is in the dock at Bow Street doesn't prove that 
 he's committed his crime in the dock. The woman 
 looks as though she suffered from indigestion." 
 
 "In some things you are quite cruel or quite stupid. I 
 don't know which is the worse. Cruelty is often the re-
 
 "AN EMINENT ACTOR'S SISTER" 167 
 
 suit of stupidity. Go and ask your mother who she is." 
 
 Richard returned with the information that she was 
 ;i Mrs. Wagstaffe, the wife of one of Billy's clients. 
 Intelligence came into Gwen's eyes. 
 
 "Why, that's the woman, Mrs. Wagstaffe, who has 
 given Mr. Brinstable a set of Hall Caine's works as a 
 wedding present. I was astonished when I saw them. 
 There is something behind this. That unhappy little 
 Jewess is a woman of strong character. She has a 
 taste for the macabre. There's a tragedy here. She's 
 looking at him as I should look at you at your wed- 
 ding if I didn't happen to be the bride." 
 
 "And had the bad luck to be alive." He smiled. 
 
 "Dear boy," she answered, and he felt her at his side 
 as he pushed through the crowd. 
 
 They approached the bridegroom and bride, who were 
 standing by a long refreshment table, Billy, red and 
 radiant, looking desperately endimanche in a white satin 
 tie, dark grey frockcoat, trousers of a pronounced 
 shepherd's plaid design, and a red carnation. Ethel, 
 dignified and calm, conveyed rather the idea of placid 
 well-being than of nuptial ecstasy. 
 
 "She looks very pale," was the universal verdict, 
 capped occasionally by the comment, "Anybody would 
 look pale beside Billy Brinstable." 
 
 And, beyond question, Billy felt the heat, and showed 
 it. Indeed, Montague, while expressing approval of 
 the ceremony as a whole, had stated that the bride- 
 groom did not look tlje part. But then the bride- 
 groom's part at a wedding is the leading man's part. 
 And, of course, Montague 
 
 Richard and Gwendolen congratulated the young 
 couple. 
 
 Billy, beaming, mopped his brow :
 
 168 THE. OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Thanks awfully. You may well say so. This day, 
 the ninth day of July of the current year, is the proud- 
 est day in the life of William Brinstable. And William 
 Brinstable is willing to bet on the subject with all and 
 sundry in pounds, shillings, or pence." 
 
 Gwen repressed a shudder. 
 
 Turning, she said to Richard : "Will you ever forget 
 that speech?" 
 
 She noticed that he bit his lip as he answered: "I 
 doubt it." 
 
 "But, Dick, you didn't tell me that your sister was 
 marrying a 'bounder.' There is no other word. In 
 church I tried hard to have doubts. But now that he's 
 spoken oh, Dick, it's terrible. She can't possibly 
 love him!" 
 
 He answered abruptly: 
 
 "He's a very good sort." 
 
 "A girl, a pretty girl, doesn't marry a man because 
 he's a good sort. Is he rich?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "He's a solicitor, isn't he?" she inquired, searching 
 her mind for an explanation of so strange a union. 
 
 He looked at her sharply. 
 
 "Yes. Well?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing." 
 
 "You've got something in your head. And I know 
 what it is; but you're wrong. Do you think that 
 
 I'd allow a sister of mine to marry a man like that " 
 
 In his annoyance he was on the point of adding "in 
 order to help me," but he pulled himself up at the 
 slip. "A man like that." 
 
 "No, dear, of course not. But a sister of yours must 
 surely be so fond of you that she would do anything 
 to help you on."
 
 "AN EMINENT ACTOR'S SISTER" 169 
 
 Clearly he was concealing something from her, some- 
 thing that pained him. Hitherto he had always come 
 to her in his troubles. He had appeared to need her 
 sympathy in any sorrow. Could it be that of his late 
 success had been born a feeling of independence that 
 would make her, in some degree, less necessary to his 
 life? She shot a questioning glance. But his eyes did 
 not meet hers. 
 
 She drove home with a slight flutter of fear in her 
 heart. 
 
 Montague, on his way to his chambers, noticed a 
 contents bill of an evening paper: 
 
 WEDDING OF AN EMINENT ACTOR'S SISTER. 
 
 "They might have said 'great* instead of 'eminent,' ' 
 he reflected. "Still, one can't have everything." 
 
 Yet in his heart he didn't see why he shouldn't. 
 ******* 
 
 On the last day of the Trinity term Richard asked 
 John to bring him his fee-book. 
 
 The clerk brought in the thin red leather volume 
 and handed it to him, and stood by his side as he 
 opened it. 
 
 "The year didn't begin very well, sir," he said, with 
 a comical twitch of his mouth. 
 
 "No, it didn't. But what have we made since our 
 arrangement ?" 
 
 A smile of pleasure came into the clerk's face at the 
 use of the plural. 
 
 "I've just totted it up, sir. It's 785 guineas. It's 
 not as much as I expected," he added, scratching his 
 fat chin. "But everything looks very hopeful now." 
 
 "Yes," said Richard, as he looked down the list of 
 solicitors who had employed him, "we've got several 
 of the big firms for small amounts."
 
 170 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "They've all had a nibble, sir. What I said to the 
 managing clerks was this : 'Come and try the gov- 
 ernor. If you aren't pleased, you needn't come back. 
 But if you don't try the governor now, you may not 
 be able to get him five years hence if I'm spared to 
 be his clerk.' That's what I said. Some of them 
 laughed. 'Think you've got a Rufus Isaacs, John?' 
 they asked. And I replied, 'I don't say I have, and I 
 don't say I haven't. But I've got the next best thing 
 
 to it, and in two years' time He broke off, 
 
 rubbing his chin and twisting his mouth. "Well, sir, 
 perhaps I did lay it on a bit too thick." 
 
 Richard laughed. "I'm sure you did. But, any- 
 how, they did give me a trial. That's the great 
 thing." 
 
 "No, sir, if you'll excuse me, that isn't the great 
 thing. The great thing is that they're all pleased, 
 every one of them. And next term there will be big 
 work coming in. Big work in the biggest sense of the 
 word 'work', sir." 
 
 "Good. We were talking about what was the great 
 thing. To me the great thing is whether you're pleased 
 or not." 
 
 John thought for a minute, and then made this 
 strange reply: 
 
 "No one, at any rate, no man even at the Bar is 
 perfect." 
 
 Richard was surprised at the other's lack of enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 "We're all human, of course," he said, with an inter- 
 rogative smile. 
 
 John looked at him deliberately. 
 
 "Some of us are far more human than we've any 
 need to be."
 
 "AN EMINENT ACTOR'S SISTER" 171 
 
 Richard, in spite of the fact that there was no note 
 of insolence in the tone, felt annoyed. Abruptly he 
 said: 
 
 "I'm off to-day to the country." 
 
 "Your address, sir?" 
 
 "I'm staying with Lord Lashbridge, Lashbridge, 
 Buckinghamshire." 
 
 "Who's chairman of so many Committees in the 
 Lords?" 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir." 
 
 "Well, good-bye, John ; a pleasant holiday to you," 
 and he shook his hand. "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Margate, sir, as usual Monte Margate." 
 
 As he went out into Essex Court, dirty and dingy, 
 Richard wondered what John implied in accusing him 
 of intense humanity. 
 
 "I wonder whether he knows about us!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S BOOM 
 
 AT the station his cab was met by Gwendolen's foot- 
 man, who showed him to her carriage. As he 
 approached it, her maid, a pretty blonde, petite and 
 dainty, as should be the attendant of a beautiful 
 woman, gave him a bright smile of wisdom and wel- 
 come. 
 
 Gwendolen herself was leaning out, on her face a 
 look of anxiety. When she saw him, radiant joy 
 beamed from her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, I was afraid you'd be late. Jump in. We're 
 just off." 
 
 Scarcely was the train out of the station, when she 
 pulled up her veil, took off his Homburg hat, and 
 covered his face with kisses. 
 
 "My dear, my dear, my dear!" he protested, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "Oh, call me 'darling,' if you mean it. Call me 
 'darling' if you don't. A little humbug goes a long 
 way with me." She had her hands on his shoulders, and 
 held him at arm's length, looking into his eyes. "And 
 I've got you to myself for a whole month. Think of 
 it. No Wilfred. Only me and you. No law, no work, 
 no worries. Only me and you. Me first now. I'm not 
 talking grammar, but I'm talking sense." 
 
 "I love you, my darling," he said in a low voice, 
 looking intently at her. Then with his left arm he
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM 173 
 
 drew her towards him, pressing her closely to his side. 
 She, reckless of her hat, let her head rest on his 
 shoulder whilst he kissed her with long kisses on the 
 neck. 
 
 Her eyes were closed. 
 
 He kissed the lids. Her frame was rigid. 
 
 "God!" he gasped. "We might be killed before we 
 get to Lashbridge." 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. Her lips scarcely moved. 
 Her eyes opened and threw at him a glance maddening 
 in its tenderness. 
 
 The train sped on through lanes of dull, drab houses 
 linen hanging out to dry children, devoid of pur- 
 pose, raising shrill cries rattle and burr and hum 
 the shriek of the whistle the sun beating hot on the 
 drawn blinds out into the country. 
 
 Wearily leaning back in the corner of the carriage, 
 he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "Do you mind getting down my bag, Dick?" 
 
 He took down her travelling-bag from the rack, 
 and she took out an enamelled-top bottle of eau de 
 Cologne. 
 
 "My lips are cold," she said. 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 "Am I looking all right?" 
 
 "I never know whether a woman's hat is all right or 
 not. The more wrong it looks, the more right it is 
 supposed to be." 
 
 "Give me the mirror." 
 
 As he handed to her a. circular mirror of silver on 
 which was enamelled Rossetti's Beata Beatrix, he was 
 struck by the beauty of the workmanship. 
 
 Though a man of slight artistic culture, he took an 
 instinctive delight in the beautiful. Good things gave
 
 174 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 him pleasure; bad things did not cause him pain. 
 Such a temperament is ideal in an Englishman who 
 lives in London in the twentieth century. 
 
 "You like it? But you haven't seen the most beauti- 
 ful thing about it yet," she said as she arranged her 
 veil. Then she pressed a bulb in the enamel, and the 
 back flew open, revealing a photograph of himself. 
 
 "My dear girl, you're mad!" he laughed. 
 
 "Yes, I am. I'm mad about you, and I'm going 
 madder every day. What is love? Egoism a deux. 
 I see myself in the glass. I see you here. The two 
 people I worship. But I worship you most. I've got 
 to. If I only loved you as you seem to love me, you'd 
 think that I didn't love you at all. You're a spoilt 
 baby." 
 
 "My dear, you can't expect me to have pictures of 
 you concealed in my boot-trees !" 
 
 "I'm afraid that would be asking too much. But 
 if you did I should go wild with joy. You take so 
 much for granted. Women take nothing for granted. 
 A symbol is not a real thing. But it's something. 
 Now, this little mirror is a present that I've given 
 myself, from you. I thought it out. I thought it out 
 hard for a long time, and you gave it me as a surprise 
 yesterday. And now I'm going to kiss you for it." 
 
 "Darling," he laughed, "I should never have dreamed 
 of giving you a looking-glass that is half a conjuring 
 trick and half a picture gallery." 
 
 "I know you wouldn't. That's why I have to remedy 
 your faults. You ought to have known that I wanted 
 this, and told me to buy it for myself." 
 
 "Why buy it for yourself?" 
 
 "Because it cost thirty pounds, and my own private 
 genius isn't very rich just yet. But he's going to
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM 175 
 
 be thank heaven very soon. Your poverty, Dick, 
 has been particularly sickening. If I hadn't loved you 
 very enormously hugely much I should have been com- 
 pelled to give you up. Here was I with any amount 
 of money, and you couldn't afford a flat. Your horri- 
 ble impecuniosity kept us apart. Do you remember the 
 San Marino Hotel?" She laughed at the remembrance. 
 "Oh, Dick, that was too awful. But when I wanted to 
 take that sweet little flat in Hay Hill for you, how 
 furious you were ! For that piece of impertinence poor, 
 innocent little Gwendolen was very nearly sent to I 
 think you did mention the proprietor of the great, 
 undesirable portion of Eternity on that occasion, didn't 
 you, Dick?" 
 
 "He was alluded to. But nothing came of it." 
 
 She went on. "Still, you ought to have a valet. 
 You oughtn't to stay at a place like Lashbridge with- 
 out a man. If one hasn't got somebody of one's own 
 to run one down in the servant's hall, one can't hope 
 to be treated with respect. If you don't pay a servant 
 of your own to slander you, all the other servants 
 think it's their duty to do it. They assume that you 
 are too monstrous to dare to travel with a servant." 
 
 "Servants," he admitted, "are an extraordinary race. 
 No one will ever understand them. A servant is the 
 hardest person in the world to cross-examine except, 
 perhaps, a mining engineer." 
 
 "No one has written accurately about them in this 
 country. There is, of course, Octave Mirbeau's Journal 
 d'une Femme de Chambre. How I wish you could read 
 French ! No, 'Joseph Andrews' is not of any real value 
 to-day. But I could write a book on servants if I 
 could write, which, thank heaven, I can't. If you give 
 up loving me, I may take to writing. Each book would
 
 176 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 be an epitaph on a dead heart. Remember, a dead 
 heart dies daily. It is always dying. Yes, I think I 
 could write not a novel a convenient handbook on 
 servants. I have inherited my great talent from my 
 mother, who is I say it, Dick, without pride the 
 leading housekeeper in Bayswater." 
 
 He nodded: 
 
 "I have had long talks with her. You are giving 
 her no undue praise. It has always been a source of 
 amazement to me that no prisoner at the Old Bailey 
 has ever urged in mitigation of punishment, 'My lord, 
 I was for some time in the service of Mrs. Paxton- 
 Pryce.' If the judge had the pleasure of your mother's 
 acquaintance the plea would have carried considerable 
 weight." 
 
 As the train drew up at the station, Gwen said: 
 
 "The great charm of being in love isn't that one 
 always talks about oneself, but that one can talk 
 nonsense that is infinitely more interesting than sense." 
 
 Lord Lashbridge had sent a motor to meet them, 
 and it was with huge pleasure that Richard, his mis- 
 tress by his side, drove through the oak avenue leading 
 to the old Tudor Hall. It was the first time that he 
 had ever stayed in a great country house ; also, he felt 
 supremely happy. 
 
 "We're to have a month's honeymoon," murmured 
 Gwen. "Ten days here, and then we go on to the 
 Plymboroughs, in Norfolk. Lord Plymborough since 
 his divorce is quite as skilful a host as Lord Lash- 
 bridge." 
 
 "Good," he answered, "we shall have a capital time." 
 
 Lashbridge received them cordially in the hall. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Gwen, that I couldn't induce Wil- 
 fred to come. I think you really ought to meet him
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM 177 
 
 oftener. He tells me that he is devoted to Mr. Mey- 
 ville, but hardly ever sees him. If he could have been 
 persuaded to come here instead of going to Marienbad, 
 I could have fitted up a private sanatorium for him in 
 the west wing. Your rooms, good people, are in the 
 east wing. Dinner's at 8.30. You've just time to 
 dress. Kindly sparkle at dinner. There are, unhap- 
 pily, some dolts in our midst." 
 
 They were shown up to adjoining rooms with a door 
 between. 
 
 In the absence of her maid, Gwen went to the door 
 and tried the handle. To her surprise, it was locked. 
 
 "Dick, is the key on your side?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Lashbridge is a careless host." 
 
 However, when Richard went down he found his 
 host in the hall. 
 
 "Did you notice, Meyville, whether your inside door 
 was locked?" 
 
 Richard smiled: 
 
 "I'm not a locksmith, Lord Lashbridge; I don't 
 investigate locks." 
 
 "Well, I always have doors between rooms locked. 
 But" and he fumbled with mock seriousness in his 
 pocket "there's the key. You may find it useful in 
 case of fire." This was a joke if joke, indeed, it 
 was which he thoroughly enjoyed and invariably 
 played on newcomers. (Guests at Lashbridge always 
 spoke of keys as "fire escapes.") 
 
 That evening Gwendolen and Richard were one of 
 the topics of conversation in the housekeeper's room, a 
 large, cold apartment, with sporting prints on the 
 walls. It was one of Lashbridge's eccentricities that he 
 insisted on all the servants having their meals to-
 
 178 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 gether. He had a rooted objection to a "Pugs' Room" 
 for the upper servants. 
 
 At one end of a long table presided Mudge, the 
 butler, fat and pompous, intensely episcopal of demean- 
 our, a very bishop among butlers. The eighteen upper 
 servants, valets, masseurs, and maids of the guests were 
 seated at supper while the under servants waited upon 
 them. At Mudge's right hand was Leah, Mrs. Ainslie's 
 maid. 
 
 "Anybody know anything about the actor-looking 
 man in the pink velvet room No. 2? I don't think," 
 said the groom of the chambers, looking round, "as he's 
 brought a gentleman with him?" 
 
 "No. 2 pink," reflected an upper housemaid. "That's 
 a Mr. Meyville, him as is with the woman they call 
 'the beautiful Mrs. Ainslie,' your lady, Mamzelle, I 
 think." 
 
 "Yes, Miss. He is an avocat, ires distingue," replied 
 Leah. 
 
 "I'm not saying he's not distinguished," said Mudge 
 judicially, "as an avocat, which I comprehend to mean 
 an advocate or lawyer fellow. But I take exception 
 to a man staying in a house, a great house, as the 
 saying is, without bringing a gentleman with him." 
 
 "I had to put out his things," broke in Payne, Lord 
 Lashbridge's confidential man. "And I g'ive you my 
 word I never saw such things ! Not a decent make 
 in the lot. Boots from Baker Street. Hosier anom- 
 alous. So I looked in the breast pocket of a blue serge. 
 What do you think I found? Tibbies and Carter, 308 
 Strand Stock," 
 
 He paused in horror. 
 
 "You don't say so, Mr. Payne !" exclaimed the butler, 
 with eyes wide open in astonishment. "Ready-made!"
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM 179 
 
 "True bill, Mr. Mudge. Reach-me-downs !" 
 
 Mr. Mudge was pained and grieved. He visited his 
 emotions on an attendant footman. 
 
 "Less noise with them plates, Joseph. Remember, 
 you're not in the dining-room. We know what waiting 
 is. Don't we, Mamzelle? I didn't quite catch your 
 name?" 
 
 "Duboc, Monsieur." 
 
 "And quite a sensible-shaped name for a French 
 name," he said kindly. "Now, what about your Mrs. 
 Ainslie? I suppose, judging by the proximity of the 
 apartments, she is the lawyer's lot!" 
 ' "Elle adore ce Monsieur" 
 
 "And the husband? Mr. Ainslie?" 
 
 "II n'existe pas. C'est un mari pour rire." 
 
 The gestures accompanying her words made them 
 intelligible to Mr. Mudge. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't be too sure. I've known cases of 
 worms turning, and turning, bless my heart, into ser- 
 pents, fangs and all. There was Lord Plymborough's 
 divorce case. I was rather a prominent witness in 
 Lord Plymborough's case. I was butler to the peti- 
 tioner, a stockbroker, but well conducted. Here, 
 Joseph, go up to my room and fetch my Press-cutting 
 book." 
 
 In the absence of Joseph. the assembly listened with 
 awe to Mr. Mudge's account of his connection with that 
 celebrated case, and complimented him on his perform- 
 ance. 
 
 When the book appeared he explained its exist- 
 ence: 
 
 "I had just stepped out of the witness box for the 
 court to adjourn for my re-examination when a 
 man comes up to me. 'Mr. Mudge,' he said, 'if I may
 
 180 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 take the liberty, I represent a Press-cutting agency, 
 and after the sensational evidence you've given to-day 
 there'll be lots about you in the papers. Several artists 
 have been drawing your picture. You might like to 
 have the articles and the pictures as a memento of the 
 occasion. A guinea for a hundred and twenty-five.' So 
 I gave him the money, and there you are," he added 
 proudly ; "eighty-six bits and pictures all about me ! 
 That pink one is a joke out of the Pink 'Un itself. 
 Devilish hot stuff it is. Whenever I take it up for a 
 read, I always laugh, even now, I do assure you." 
 
 "Sans doute fa doit etre ires spirituel, mais mal- 
 heureusement je ne comprends pas. C'est un caleirt- 
 bour, sans doute." 
 
 "No, no. Calembourg is a cheese. This is a joke 
 thing to laugh at. Comprenny?" 
 
 "C'est extraordinaire. Pas banal, fa." 
 
 "It is extraordinary. You've hit it, and a Press- 
 cutting agency is extraordinary. There was a man 
 called Mudge run in for robbery with violence some 
 years ago. And blessed if they didn't send me the 
 bit about him. I wrote and told them I didn't want 
 to know all about all Mudges. I was the only Mudge 
 I wanted to hear about." 
 
 "But they owe you a lot of cuttings still," said 
 Pinker, Lady Violet Goring's maid. Lady Violet had 
 literary tastes, and Pinker thoroughly understood the 
 Press-cutting system. 
 
 "Perhaps," Hodson, Lord Croxpeth's man suggested, 
 "they will remember you at your next divorce." 
 
 Very solemnly Mr. Mudge replied : 
 
 "I sincerely trust there won't be no next divorce for 
 me. It gives a butler a bad name to figure too much 
 before the public. I very nearly missed getting this
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM 181 
 
 billet owing to Lashbridge remembering the affair, and, 
 mind you, it ain't easy to forget, part of it having 
 been heard en camarade, as the French say, don't they, 
 Mamzelle?" 
 
 "Mais out, Monsieur. Certainement. On dit tou- 
 jours fa." 
 
 "I don't care whether you're butlers, or footmen, or 
 steward's-room boys, or ladies' attendants, you keep 
 clear of the divorce court," he continued warningly. "It 
 never did anyone in our profession any good. If you 
 don't believe me, ask my friend Mr. Younghusband. 
 He was butler to Plymborough. And after the case 
 he couldn't get a place to suit him not town and 
 country. Poor old fellow, he had to take service with 
 a parvenu who didn't run to a country establishment." 
 
 "Comment done!" exclaimed Leah, "Mistaire Young- 
 husband, un grand maigre! A tall, thin but dis- 
 tingue?" 
 
 "That's him. That's Henry. The judge, I remem- 
 ber, was very rude about Henry. His lordship hap- 
 pened to dine with us once. I saw to it that he had a 
 pretty poor dinner! Lor', I got a special bottle of 
 tenants' dance champagne out of the cellar with my 
 own hands for his lordship. So you know Mr. Young- 
 husband, do you, Mamzelle?" 
 
 "Why, he is at our 'ouse. II est maitre d'hotel chez 
 nous." 
 
 "Well, I hope the family gives him satisfaction." 
 
 "Comme ci, comme fa. Monsieur est assez difficile." 
 
 "He knows about the lawyer fellow and your lady?" 
 
 "Assurement." 
 
 "He would do. There's nothing Henry don't notice." 
 
 Then Leah asked Mr. Mudge as to the working of 
 an eccentric notice in the bedrooms:
 
 182 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Lord Lashbridge requests that his guests will not 
 assist him in the payment of his servants' wages." 
 
 Surprise and horror spread over that great man's 
 face. 
 
 "Mamzelle," he replied, "being a foreigner no 
 offence to her, but rather sympathy may not under- 
 stand us. The gentlemen who stay in this house are 
 gentlemen who knows how to behave themselves as such. 
 They know that his lordship's notice is a humorous 
 pleasantry, and as such they treat it." 
 
 "Hear, hear !" from all sides. 
 
 "And though," continued the butler, "his lord- 
 ship has particularly desired me to bring to his 
 personal notice any abnegation of his instructions 
 to his friends, only once have I found occasion for so 
 doing." 
 
 "Tell us," was the general demand. 
 
 "There was a person staying here of the name of 
 Colquhoun. His lordship didn't know him. He came, I 
 think, with Lady Ellerston, who afterwards went bank- 
 rupt no class, though she had manners in a way. I 
 thought there was something wrong about this Col- 
 quhoun as soon as I set eyes on him. He was too 
 affable and chatty with me. Well, after staying a 
 week a week, mind you he gave me what do you 
 think " 
 
 Someone hazarded : 
 
 "A quid?" 
 
 "Ten bob." 
 
 "Shame! The bounder!" 
 
 "Well, I brought the matter to his lordship's notice. 
 He was rightly annoyed, and a few days afterwards 
 he told me privately that the Colquhoun was a Sheeny 
 stockbroker of the real name of Cohen. We were very
 
 IN THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ROOM 183 
 
 indignant, and we've never had Lady Ellerston to the 
 house since." 
 
 General sympathy was expressed for Mr. Mudge. 
 
 "By the bye, Mr. Mudge," inquired Lord Croxpeth's 
 man, "who is Lashbridge with now? Last time I was 
 here it was with Lady Mary Kirkham, Darlington's 
 daughter." 
 
 "Oh, that's all over. We soon got tired of her. 
 Not enough go for us. You'll pardon me, Mr. Hod- 
 son," the butler said sternly, "Lord Lashbridge to you. 
 Lashbridge to me, because he's my man. I should be 
 lacking in respect to you personally if I spoke direct 
 to you of Croxpeth without the prefixture." 
 
 "Beg pardon, Mr. Mudge, it shall not occur again. 
 A mere slip of the tongue," replied the humbled valet. 
 
 "Granted, Mr. Hodson. Etiquette is one thing, for- 
 getfulness another. In reply to your query as to what 
 Lashbridge is up to just now, I can't say," he con- 
 tinued, leaning back and placing his fingers in the 
 armholes of his waistcoat. "We were very busy in 
 the season. We put in a deal of good work. His 
 lordship was quite at his best." 
 
 "I can tell you," came a voice from the other end 
 of the table. 
 
 All eyes were turned on the head chauffeur. 
 
 "Mrs. Ainslie lives in Green Street. Three times a 
 week regular I stay outside the house over an hour. 
 Why, bless me, I know the door by heart ! Forty-eight 
 bars in the area railings. Mrs. Ainslie's the latest. 
 And I don't blame him. She's about the only really 
 beautiful society woman I ever saw. If I had my way 
 I'd scrub 'em." 
 
 "Impossible!" exclaimed Leah indignantly. "C'est 
 ridicule!"
 
 184 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "What say?" asked the chauffeur, leaning forward. 
 
 "This lady is Mrs. Ainslie's maid," Mr. Mudge ex- 
 plained. "She ought to know it. She ain't kidding." 
 
 "Catch a Frenchie not giving away her lady if she 
 has the chance!" commented an English maid. 
 
 Volubly Leah defended her mistress. 
 
 "Elle adore Monsieur Meyville, jusqu'aux bouts des 
 ongles. Elle lui est absolument fidele. Pour moi, il le 
 merite. C'est un Tiomme serieux, un garpon charmant 
 comme il n'y a pas beaucoup." 
 
 Mr. Mudge caught the drift : 
 
 "She's a good sort, and she'll stick to Mr. Mey- 
 ville?" 
 
 "A good sort! mats yes. I was a Paquinette a 
 girl at Paquin's. She took me from zere. She is 
 adorable, et moi, je I'adore." 
 
 "All the same, if Lashbridge is serious, that lawyer 
 chap won't have a chance," was Mudge's view. "The 
 port, Joseph." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The first footman had evidence to offer : 
 
 "If the one the governor's special is present at 
 the table, I never make a mistake. There's always a 
 peculiar look in his lordship's eye when he looks at 
 her. It was there to-night, Mr. Mudge. Mrs. Ainslie 
 sat two off him. And now and then he looked at her 
 with that photographic look he has. It's a dead cert." 
 
 Mr. Mudge poured out the port. 
 
 "You will join me in a glass, Mamzelle. Here's to 
 his lordship's good luck !" 
 
 . "Je vous remercie, Monsieur," Leah answered, stiffly 
 nodding a negative. 
 
 "Anybody say a game of bridge?" asked Mr. Mudge.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 
 
 "How long has Lashbridge called you Gwen?" 
 
 She raised her lids. A tired smile played over her 
 face as she looked sideways at him. 
 
 "Darling." She caressed Richard with her eyes. 
 
 He repeated the question. 
 
 "About three weeks. Jealous?" 
 
 "What do you call him?" 
 
 "Haven't you noticed? I call him 'Lord Lashbridge,' 
 or, when I'm in a hurry, 'Lash,' like everybody else. 
 Don't you like it?" 
 
 "I'm not keen on it." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "It's almost a sign of jealousy." 
 
 She gave a long sigh of complete physical content. 
 
 "You're very strong, dear. I'm very tired." 
 
 "The journey was fatiguing?" 
 
 She smiled. "You're very fatiguing." 
 
 "I bore you?" 
 
 "To death," she laughed. Then, suddenly, "What's 
 the time?" 
 
 He fumbled under the pillow for his watch. 
 
 "A quarter-past eight." 
 
 "I must be going, Dick. I ordered tea at half-past." 
 
 At dinner that day Richard, feeling sure of his 
 ground, occasionally held the table. He, however, did 
 not commit the error so common in pushing barristers 
 of telling anecdotes illustrative of their forensic acumen.
 
 186 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Pamela, on his left, plied him with questions as to the 
 minutest details of Montague's life, and he, loyally, 
 drew a beautiful picture of the eminent man. Event- 
 ually he brought a gleam of light into her eyes by 
 promising that she should meet his brother at luncheon. 
 
 Mr. Mudge, who presided over all, caught sight of 
 the gleam, and in his mind foresaw the possibility of a 
 woeful mesalliance for Lady Pamela. 
 
 Of Gwendolen that night Richard was prouder than 
 usual. Obviously she was the prettiest woman present, 
 and when she spoke, loud laughter followed. Then she 
 threw a glance at him in quest of approval and of 
 regret that he hadn't heard the jest. 
 
 They were talking of personal popularity and the 
 difficulty of defining its cause. She had maintained 
 that the secret of popularity lay in an unlimited ability 
 to listen. 
 
 "In order to be really popular," said Lord Crox- 
 peth, "a man should be a failure in life. A man who 
 is successful never has time to devote to his friends. 
 He is always taking thought for the day after to- 
 morrow; whereas I, for one, shouldn't hesitate to bore 
 a failure to death. Have we any failures here to- 
 night?" Croxpeth was a wisp of a man, remarkable 
 chiefly for his frankly odd clothes. Each article, from 
 his hat to his boots, he designed himself. And, 
 strangely enough, the whole effect was distinguished, 
 without any suggestion of caricature. "No, we have 
 no failures here, except," and he bowed, "except our 
 host. But he is such an eminent failure that he may 
 be regarded almost as a success." 
 
 Lashbridge, amused, answered: 
 
 "Thank you, Crox, for your kindly appreciation. 
 On the whole, I'm not miserable."
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 187 
 
 He threw the "photographic" glance, mentioned by 
 the first footman, at Gwendolen. Mr. Mudge noted it 
 in its flight. 
 
 "No," he continued, "one is rather handicapped if 
 one happens to be a peer. 'After all, what is the dis- 
 tinction of winning the Derby?" 
 
 "Someone has got to win the Derby," said Gwen. 
 
 "Precisely ; the institution was created for that pur- 
 pose. And as for politics well, it would never give 
 me any real pleasure to tell a mass meeting of com- 
 plete strangers that I had definitely decided to plough 
 a lonely furrow and then rush off to Newmarket and 
 wire to the Times that I couldn't get a plough to suit 
 me. These are the politics of a peer." 
 
 "People," said Richard, "seem to forget that for 
 politics it is necessary to have a policy." 
 
 "For success in politics, Meyville," answered his 
 host, "one must look serious and be dull. It is no 
 good to be really serious and merely to pretend to 
 be dull. The dulness, at any rate, must be genuine. 
 But to be popular mustn't one be perhaps a little 
 vulgar?" 
 
 The dinner-table was firmly against him. 
 
 "If," said Gwen, "you behave as though you were 
 popular, you will be popular. If Lord Lashbridge 
 behaved as though he thought we should find him 
 tedious, we should all be bored to death." 
 
 "In my country," explained Mrs. Cyrus B. Lough, 
 this time apparently in a breast-plate of rubies, "the 
 only way for a man to be popular is for him to have 
 a pile of money and let his wife spend it. In the States 
 it's unmanly for a man to spend money on himself." 
 
 "You've made some change since the time of the 
 Mayflower, Mrs. Lough," said Pamela.
 
 188 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Change! I should think so, indeed! Don't talk 
 to me about the crew of the Mayflower! What were 
 they? Merely a handful of carpenters and joiners, 
 anyway." 
 
 Lashbridge became reminiscent: 
 
 "I remember a man who acquired intense popularity, 
 and eventually took office under Lord Salisbury in 
 rather a curious way. He used to make a point at 
 dinner-tables, in clubs, anywhere whenever a date was 
 mentioned, of saying that the speaker was wrong, no 
 matter whether he knew anything about it or not. 
 Supposing I said that the eminent alien immigrant, 
 William the Conqueror, came over here in 1066, he 
 would assure me that it was a year later or a year 
 previous. Then he would go and look the event up in 
 a dictionary of dates. He would bide his time. If I 
 was wrong he would take me aside and tell me secretly 
 of my error, and I would be grateful to him. If I 
 was right, he would seize a pause at a dinner-table 
 and say very loudly indeed: 'Lashbridge has the most 
 extraordinary memory of any man I ever met. We 
 happened to have a discussion the other day as to the 
 date of the Norman Conquest, or the invention of 
 Tatcho, or whatever the thing was. Lashbridge, as 
 usual, turned out to be right. Perfectly astounding 
 man, Lashbridge.' Naturally I felt pleased and proud. 
 Now, no one with any intellect is ever sure of a date. 
 So whichever way it turned out, this fellow made a 
 new friend. That's a tip worth remembering, Mey- 
 ville." 
 
 Though the tone in which the last words were spoken 
 was kindly and the words were accompanied by a smile, 
 Richard resented the deliberate allusion to himself. 
 This was one of the many occasions on which Lash-
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 189 
 
 bridge treated him with annoying patronage. He 
 seemed to wish to belittle him in Gwen's eyes. He raised 
 his eyebrows slightly. Gwen, however, shot out: 
 
 "Mr. Meyville is not a commercial traveller." 
 
 "My dear Gwendolen," Lashbridge almost tenderly 
 replied, in his eyes an unmistakable "photographic" 
 glance, "every man is a commercial traveller in his own 
 personality. He has to exhibit samples of it to 
 as many people as possible and persuade them to 
 take the what's the word? bulk at his own valua- 
 tion." 
 
 The speech, coupled with the manner of its delivery, 
 taught Richard much. It convinced him that Gwen- 
 dolen had found far more favour in Lashbridge's sight 
 than might be compatible with his own happiness. 
 
 Late that night, when some of the bridge parties 
 had broken up, the majority of the guests were talk- 
 ing over their drinks. 
 
 "Hullo !" exclaimed Croxpeth, who had taken up an 
 illustrated paper. "This is the limit. The record is 
 broken. No one else need move in the matter." 
 
 Everyone crowded around: 
 
 "Great Scott!" 
 
 "The end of all things !" 
 
 "No one else on earth would have done it !" 
 
 "Now he'll never get his knighthood!" 
 
 At the mention of the word "knighthood," which was 
 received with roars of laughter, Richard approached 
 the group. To his horror he saw a photograph of 
 Edward VII. and Montague. Beneath it was printed: 
 "Mr. Montague Cliftonville talking to the King at 
 Bad-Schwerin." 
 
 He paled. 
 
 "My brother," he definitely stated, "has to pursue
 
 190 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 the same methods of advertisement that are followed 
 by other actors." 
 
 "Your brother!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 In the clatter of conversation suddenly improvised to 
 cover the awkwardness of the situation, he detected 
 "And this chap's a gentleman!" "Knighthood, in- 
 deed!" "Rogue and vagabond!" 
 
 "Was Montague mad?" he asked himself. As a 
 matter of fact, the actor had simply arranged with 
 his travelling secretary to snapshot him if ever he saw 
 him in close proximity to his Majesty. In this case 
 the result obtained had been very agreeable to the 
 actor. The pose conveyed that Mr. Cliftonville was 
 giving ripe counsel on affairs of State to his Sovereign, 
 with whose intelligence he appeared pleased. 
 
 Montague so much admired the picture that, besides 
 sending it to all the papers, he ordered four enlarge- 
 ments, one for the hall of his theatre, another for his 
 rooms, and a third for his mother. He very kindly 
 sent the fourth to Richard, with instruction that it 
 was "for his chambers." Evidently Montague thought 
 it would impress clients. With what? With Mon- 
 tague ! Richard gave it to Moseley. Moseley thought 
 that the frame might come in useful. 
 
 At the other end of the hall Gwendolen, over-per- 
 suaded by Lashbridge, had seated herself at the piano. 
 
 "You know, Lash, you won't like it. You aren't 
 musical." 
 
 "I don't like music," he admitted, "but I like seeing 
 you sing." 
 
 "Shall I sing in dumb show? What shall I sing? 
 Oh, I'm rather fond of a song that came out during 
 the Boer War in the Daily Mall I think. Every-
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 191 
 
 thing seems to have been seen in the Daily Mail. Lord 
 Croxpeth asked me just now if I'd seen an extraordi- 
 nary story about a man called Jonah in the Daily Mail. 
 This is a sad song, but it gets brighter towards the 
 finish." 
 
 In a shimmering black dress and many pearls in 
 Lalique settings she looked more than usually beauti- 
 ful. Her eyes seemed to gaze in anguish over distant 
 seas during the first half of each stanza, and then, as 
 the answer came back loyal and vigorous, they sparkled 
 in triumph: 
 
 Sentinel set by the Northern Sea, 
 
 Is our day so dark, and our Fate so fell, 
 
 That the heart of our Lady of Snows should freeze 
 
 To the Motherland, oh Sentinel? 
 
 "Ig it all in vain 
 That amidst your slain 
 Lie the sons of the White Lady? 
 Since the veldt ran red 
 With the blood we shed, 
 Need ye ask this thing of me?" 
 
 Sentinel set by the Eastern Sea, 
 What is the tale that the tribesmen tell, 
 Of the Brahmin's love and his loyalty 
 To the English flag, oh Sentinel? 
 
 "The icy breath 
 Of the Lord of Death 
 Has breathed o'er the Eastern Sea; 
 But no heart was cold, 
 In the farthest hold, 
 Where the English flag flew free."
 
 192 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Sentinel set by the Southern Sea, 
 What of the strife that you sought to quell, 
 And the price in blood and chivalry? 
 What of the price, oh Sentinel? 
 
 "We have won this strife 
 For the Empire's life, 
 And the price we shall never know. 
 (Could ye count the cost 
 Had the fight been lost, 
 And the English flag laid low?)" 
 
 Then the music changed. It became more sonorous, 
 more vigorously assertive of the nation's purpose: 
 
 Sentinel set in the Western Isle, 
 Where the sea-bred sons of the Saxon dwell, 
 Have you told the tale of your rank and file 
 The tale of your dead, oh Sentinel? 
 
 "We have wept our dead 
 With a heart of lead, 
 We have wept with a face of stone. 
 But the English race 
 Shall yield no place, 
 Where the English flag has flown" 
 
 There was silence for a moment. There were tears 
 in the eyes of some of the women. For the singer had 
 recalled the agonies of a dread time. There were few 
 in that hall who were not the poorer for a life laid 
 down in that terrible period. Gwendolen had suddenly 
 reopened many a wound. And to many hearts came 
 a feeling of shame that the wound had ever been 
 allowed to close.
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 193 
 
 "Thank you, my dear Gwendolen," said Lashbridge 
 as she rose. There was a tremor in his voice as he 
 spoke, and he noticed tears like dewdrops in her eyes. 
 Never had she shown any emotion in his presence. This 
 episode revealed her in a new and extraordinarily fas- 
 cinating light. It seemed to bring her personality into 
 closer touch with him than ever before. 
 
 Then the evening broke up. 
 
 "Gwen," said Richard very tenderly. "I want you 
 to promise me one thing. It's a selfish thing." 
 
 "It is promised." 
 
 "I don't want you to sing again in the presence of 
 any man but me. You seem to give away something- 
 of your soul when you sing. I want you all of you 
 body and soul." 
 
 "Am I not altogether yours?" 
 
 "That's why I want you all to myself." 
 
 He buried his face in her long silken hair. 
 
 "Would you like to keep your song-bird in a cage?" 
 
 Her lips curled into his. 
 
 "No, I want you to be admired, but I don't want 
 any man to get anything for his admiration." 
 
 "Do you know that I should like to keep you in 
 a cage far, far away from the Law Courts, and feed 
 you with horrid American cigarettes, and only take 
 you out when I wanted you? But," and she com- 
 pressed her mouth into a rosebud of a pout, "you would 
 always be out, because I should always want you, 
 always want you, always and always." 
 
 She emphasised her words by flinging her arms close 
 round him and straining him tight to her breast, and 
 drawing in his breath in one of those kisses that seem 
 to exhaust the soul. 
 
 Then he said suddenly:
 
 194 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "I suppose you know that Lashbridge is in love with 
 you?" 
 
 Gaily she laughed: 
 
 "Did you really think that you would find that out 
 first?" 
 
 Sure though he was of her loyalty, he became indig- 
 nant. 
 
 "Then it's true?" 
 
 "He hasn't said so. He won't. He knows. He 
 isn't a fool. He quite understands that it wouldn't be 
 any good. And I think he grasps the fact that if 
 he said anything I should never speak to him again. 
 It would be unpardonable in him as he knows about 
 us. Oh, Lashbridge plays the game by the proper 
 rules." 
 
 Though he could not see her face, her firmness of 
 tone satisfied him. 
 
 "How long has this been going on ?" 
 
 "I think he began to fancy he was in love one night 
 at dinner in Green Street. You were there. He took 
 to calling a good deal afterwards. I think he became 
 convinced of his unfortunate condition to-night." 
 
 "Ah, it was your singing." 
 
 "Perhaps, that may have helped. I won't do it 
 again." 
 
 "Mind you, I don't think he likes me." 
 
 "Is that altogether under the circumstances un- 
 natural? Still, he's never said so." 
 
 "Of course not ; not to you." 
 
 "He's always been most enthusiastic." 
 
 "As you say, he's playing the game by the proper 
 rules. But, Gwen, he's playing for you, and he's going 
 to play hard." 
 
 "But he's going to lose," she said.
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 195 
 
 "And, by Jove!" exclaimed Richard from his heart, 
 "what a terrible loss, to love and lose you, my darling !" 
 
 Gwendolen was fairly accurate in her opinion of 
 Lashbridge. An expert in women, he had, at their first 
 meeting, grasped the fairly obvious objective fact that 
 she was an intensely desirable woman. Subsequently, 
 he realised that she was a woman he could passionately 
 love. The sight of Wilfred convinced him that, beyond 
 question, she must have a lover. On ascertaining that 
 her lover was an impecunious barrister, and brother 
 of the incredible Cliftonville, he felt assured of success. 
 She was so clearly a woman who demanded, physically 
 and mentally, the companionship of an artist in affec- 
 tion. And a young barrister would either be a foolish, 
 rattling fellow, or a lean, yellow stick with a parch- 
 ment soul. At the idea of such a liaison, his opinion 
 of Gwendolen had sunk in a degree. A woman's valua- 
 tion of herself can be as surely estimated by her choice 
 of a lover as a man's in his selection of a wife. 
 
 But when he saw Richard his views changed. Rich- 
 ard did her credit. He need not be ashamed of such 
 a predecessor. He was a fine fellow but he was not 
 Lord Lashbridge. 
 
 On further knowledge of Gwendolen, while his pas- 
 sion began to develop rapidly, he understood that 
 Richard was a rival whom it would be hard, if not 
 impossible, to oust. 
 
 Piqued in his pride, he became desperately in love 
 with her. 
 
 But when her every look, her every word told him 
 that she loved another man it would be absurd for 
 him to take any definite line. Yet he greatly desired 
 her society. Her absence became intolerable. He 
 called frequently on her, and stayed long, even when
 
 196 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 they were not alone. He noticed that she took a 
 tantalising pleasure in talking about Richard, his 
 doings, his sayings, his hopes. 
 
 On one occasion he had delicately objected: 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Ainslie, I have not come here to talk 
 about Richard. I want to talk about you." 
 
 "It is the same thing," she answered. 
 
 Cold came to his heart: 
 
 "He's a singularly fortunate young man." 
 
 "He deserves to be." 
 
 Had she spoken thus about her husband he would 
 have used every means to transfer her affections to 
 himself. He would have proved himself in all things 
 superior to her husband. A girl marries, or has a 
 husband thrust upon her, for a hundred reasons. But 
 when a woman, with her eyes open, deliberately selects 
 her lover and proves to herself that she has wisely 
 chosen, his position is well-nigh unassailable. The 
 woman's love, self-respect, and pride are insuperable 
 barriers against the intruder. 
 
 The unfortunate Lashbridge, finding that he had 
 met the love of his life, and that she was beyond his 
 reach, felt himself in a sorry case. It was obvious 
 that she liked him, and was fond of his society. Secure 
 in her position, she saw him a great deal. And the 
 more he saw of her the more fiercely his hopeless pas- 
 sion burned. 
 
 What would be the outcome? The wretched Wil- 
 fred could not live long. He could then offer her 
 marriage. It couldn't be supposed that she, a sensible, 
 ambitious woman, as he knew, would prefer to be the 
 wife of a barrister to being a Marchioness. She might 
 not love him but his knowledge of himself, and of his 
 successful experiences with women, convinced him that
 
 LASHBRIDGE SEES HIS WAY 197 
 
 they would "get on," that she would eventually love 
 him. Still, Wilfred might live ten years. There was 
 a proverb about creaking doors. These reflections kept 
 him uneasily awake, maddened at moments by the 
 thought that the woman he loved was in his own house 
 possibly at that moment being kissed by one of his 
 own guests a most unnecessary man. 
 
 Were there no means of separating them? 
 
 The barrister was keen on his career, horribly, almost 
 vulgarly keen. Why shouldn't Pamela take an interest 
 in him. If it was true that his future was assured, 
 Richard might not be an entirely impossible mesalliance 
 for the girl even with Montague Cliftonville as a 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 Still, the scheme did not seem very promising. It 
 did not appeal to him. 
 
 A well-arranged liaison is much more permanent than 
 an ordinary marriage. It contains a hundred honey- 
 moons. A marriage contains but one. Some last, of 
 course, for ever; but these are few. The man and 
 the woman who are not married meet only for pleasure, 
 never for ennui. Each meeting is, in a sensual sense, 
 an earnest of continuing love. 
 
 There must, surely, be some method of separating 
 them if he could find it. 
 
 Suddenly the idea came vague and indefinite, but 
 pregnant with promise and in its train came sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 
 
 AFTER a delightful long vacation, most of which had 
 been . spent in the company of Gwendolen, Richard 
 returned to the Temple. Abundance of work awaited 
 him. All the solicitors who had previously tested his 
 qualities sent him more briefs briefs of greater im- 
 portance. Several solicitors, eager to profit by a dis- 
 covery made at the risk of others, sent him work. 
 Moseley's prophecies were in a fair way to come true. 
 The clerk himself appeared satisfied. He became a 
 little hard to please in the matter of fees. On occasions 
 when Richard appeared single-handed he exacted the 
 remuneratidn of an average "leader." 
 
 "My governor will be there. I guarantee it. He's 
 as good as so-and-so or such-and-such. So you're 
 saving the expense of a junior," he would say. Also 
 he absolutely declined all county court cases with more 
 or less scorn. Moseley was, indeed, a hard taskmaster. 
 He kept his nominal employer toiling at fever-heat. 
 His acquaintance with associates and his friendship 
 with police magistrates' clerks enabled him to fit in an 
 enormous amount of work. Richard's criminal practice, 
 which he insisted on continuing, took up a great deal 
 of time, unremuneratively, to the clerk's way of 
 thinking. 
 
 In order to keep faithfully to his guarantee that 
 Richard should attend to any work accepted, many 
 considerable briefs were returned, so that the barrister 
 could dash off from the K.B.D. to the Old Bailey for
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 199 
 
 "five and one." A pure waste of money, thought Mose- 
 ley. Richard, however, fascinated by the human inter- 
 est of the Central Criminal Court, was firm. 
 
 Late one afternoon, after a consultation, the clerk 
 handed him a retainer for the promoters of the Sud- 
 bury-on-Tritham Tramways Bill five guineas. 
 
 "Moseley, how did this come my way?" he asked in 
 surprise. 
 
 "Well, sir, my first wife's brother is a partner in 
 Nethershall and Milbury's, the Parliamentary agents. 
 We haven't been exactly on speaking terms that is to 
 say, civil speaking terms for some years, partly over 
 my late wife's property, but I thought" here he smiled 
 "that I should best be consulting the interests of 
 all parties by eating humble pie. So I made a meal 
 of it." 
 
 "And?" 
 
 "In the course of conversation afterwards, I men- 
 tioned that you were a great friend of Lord Lash- 
 bridge's, and that if Joe Milbury had got a Bill or 
 two in the Lords, you were just the man for any com- 
 mittee presided over by his lordship." 
 
 "You're very energetic, John. Unhappily, Lord 
 Lashbridge and I are not great friends." 
 
 "But you stayed with him, sir, in the vacation! 
 That's what gave me the idea." 
 
 "I don't think he would go out of his way one hair's 
 breadth to do me a good turn. He would go a long 
 way to do me a bad one." 
 
 Moseley's quick intelligence found the word "woman." 
 His eyebrows met in a frown of irritation. 
 
 "Anyhow, sir, we've got the retainer. There will be 
 a hundred guineas on your brief. Mr. Gregg will lead 
 vou."
 
 200 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "It's an excellent thing to get a footing at the 
 Parliamentary Bar," said Richard reflectively. 
 
 "Yes, sir. It makes up for some of the time we lose 
 at the Old Bailey." 
 
 Apart from the enormous fees earned in the commit- 
 tee rooms, Moseley felt that if Richard could secure 
 any sort of practice there he would be compelled to 
 abandon the Central Criminal Court. 
 
 The distance between it and Westminster was too 
 great for convenience, if not for practicability. Be- 
 sides, precedent was against it. He knew of no case 
 of a man who had attempted to appear regularly before 
 both tribunals. 
 
 "We shall see," said Richard. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you, sir, that your brother is 
 here. Can you see him?" 
 
 "You've kept him waiting all this time !" 
 
 Not only had he kept him waiting, but, having little 
 regard either for him or his calling, he had enjoyed 
 doing so. 
 
 The actor appeared, ruffled in humour. His eyes 
 instantly detected the absence of the Bad-Schwerin 
 photograph. 
 
 Petulantly he inquired: 
 
 "What have you done with that picture of me?" 
 
 "Ego et meus Rex?" 
 
 "Don't be absurd." 
 
 "This is too humble a room for such a work. The 
 National Portrait Gallery is the proper place." 
 
 "I've come here to talk sense," the mime snapped, 
 throwing himself irritably into a chair. "A most 
 annoying thing has happened." 
 
 He then recounted the episode of the poem in the 
 Phoenix. In its development lay the cause of sorrow.
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 201 
 
 It appeared that the editor, instead of publishing 
 instantly a supplement dealing with Montague, had 
 already published three, each dealing with another 
 actor. When would Montague appear? Herein lay 
 further pain. These three other actors were, to his 
 thinking, candidates for the honour of knighthood. 
 
 "Now when I," he wound up, "wrote to this con- 
 founded editor, a pretty stiff letter, I can tell you, he 
 replied that he was dealing with the actors in order 
 of merit. And I don't know whether I come even fourth 
 or not!" Indignation shone in his eyes. 
 
 "But," answered Richard, "it is no mean thing to 
 be the fourth greatest man in one's profession even 
 if he is so only in the eyes of a single man. The editor 
 of the Phoenix is only a single member of the public, 
 though, no doubt, a most important member." 
 
 "But everybody sees his paper." 
 
 "I never see it." 
 
 "All fashionable people see it." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 "Surely," persisted Montague, "it's libellous to say 
 that these three fellows are greater actors than myself?" 
 
 "But he doesn't say so in his paper. He only writes 
 and tells you so." 
 
 "But the inference !" 
 
 "Is it a libel on Rufus Isaacs if a paper published a 
 picture of Sir Edward Carson to-day, and of him to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Oh, lawyers are different," Montague replied. 
 
 "No, they're not," answered Richard gravely. "It's 
 the actors who are different. They are different from 
 any other class of men in the world. I suppose it's 
 the constant painting of your faces that makes you 
 so infernally thin-skinned."
 
 202 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 The actor thought for a second. 
 
 "That's very good," he commented reflectively. "I 
 know a man to whom that applies I shall say that 
 about him." Then, returning to the subject in hand: 
 "What had I better do?" 
 
 "Nothing. Put up better plays, old chap. And 
 come to lunch on Sunday." 
 
 "Not in Gloucester Terrace?" 
 
 "Have no fear. The Carlton. One of Shurin's 
 tables, right in the middle." 
 
 "Who's coming?" 
 
 "No crowned heads. Only Lady Pamela 1'Estocq and 
 Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 "Lady Pamela 1'Estocq isn't she Lashbridge's 
 daughter?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He's a poor weed. I can't believe he was ever really 
 good-looking." 
 
 "The daughter admires you vastly. She's made a 
 corner in picture postcards of you." 
 
 "Half-past-one at the Carlton will suit me ad- 
 mirably." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 The mention of picture postcards recalled to his 
 mind the Bad-Schwerin photograph. As Richard 
 didn't seem to want it, he might have let him have it 
 back. 
 
 "Certainly. An accident has happened to the frame. 
 But I believe the work itself is intact." 
 
 "I think of presenting it to the Playgoers' Club." 
 
 "They will, no doubt, be hugely pleased. I'm walk- 
 ing westwards. Are you coming?" 
 
 "My motor's waiting." 
 
 "You've got a motor?" Richard asked in surprise.
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 203 
 
 "But your theatre hasn't been doing well lately." 
 
 An uneasy look absorbed Montague's eyes, his stick, 
 held at right angles, patted his brow. 
 
 "I get my salary." 
 
 Solemnly Richard replied: 
 
 "A solicitor with a prayer-book is always to be mis- 
 trusted. He is on his way to gaol. An actor with 
 a motor-car generally motors to the Bankruptcy 
 Court." 
 
 For a second, Montague seemed on the point of an 
 explanation. He changed his mind. 
 
 "I don't like pessimists," he answered as ne turned 
 to the door; "pessimism is the consolation cup 
 that But the epigram refused to come. "No, 
 
 I'm not in the vein to-day I'm not in the vein." 
 
 Wearily stroking his forehead, he went out of the 
 room. 
 
 "Something is going wrong with Montie," reflected 
 Richard. "Poor old chap. The motor scheme is all 
 wrong. I wonder if he's saved any money." 
 
 Rarely had Montague enjoyed himself so much as 
 at the lunch on Sunday. The conversation of the parti 
 car re consisted of two distinct duologues. Lady 
 Pamela sat with eyes of admiration while the actor 
 discoursed on his favourite topic. He could not say 
 too much about himself. Pamela, in a girl's seventh 
 heaven, the gratification of curiosity, plied him with 
 questions. When another actor's name was mentioned, 
 he praised him benevolently. This one was the best 
 actor on the stage except, of course, in costume plays. 
 Now this actor appeared in no others. A second actor 
 was the most "gentlemanly" actor on the stage. It 
 happened that the second actor had originally been an 
 assistant in a furniture warehouse. He was even now
 
 204 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 no more like a gentleman than an auctioneer. Several 
 actors, he went so far as to say, would make ideal 
 Hamlets. He was always in favour of actors playing 
 the Prince, because he knew from his own experience 
 that the public was firmly anti-Hamlet, and financial 
 disaster invariably resulted from that play's produc- 
 tion. The phonograph, he maintained, in moments of 
 expansion, to non-theatrical listeners, had killed 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Suddenly he inquired of Gwendolen : 
 
 "Who's that stout old lady who's looking at me 
 over there? You just nodded to her." 
 
 "Oh, that's Mrs. Trout, a great American society 
 woman." 
 
 "Do tell me, Gwen, what you think of her what you 
 think of her really?" asked Pamela. 
 
 Gwendolen pursed her lips: "I think she's lady- 
 like." 
 
 "Ladylike!" exclaimed Richard, aghast at the use 
 of this unusable word. 
 
 A fault in the faultless amounts to a crime, just as 
 any merit in a criminal becomes a virtue. 
 
 "When I say ladylike, I mean that she's something 
 just a little like a lady." 
 
 "Good," laughed Pamela, "you've added a word to 
 the language. It does describe her," she added, look- 
 ing at the somewhat blatant American. "Oh, there's 
 my father. He told me he'd be here. He is in very 
 serious company, for him. That's the Chancellor, isn't 
 it? And Sir James Tufnell. Lord Croxpeth doesn't 
 quite save the situation. A curious lunch for my father 
 to be giving!" 
 
 "That's where you ought to be, Richard," Gwen- 
 dolen said chaffingly. "You ought to be talking law
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 205 
 
 to the Lord Chancellor instead of nonsense to us." 
 
 "I am glad I know you well enough to talk nonsense 
 to you," he said laughing ; "very few people know you 
 well enough for that. But there are several men in 
 the Temple who devote their lives to incubating non- 
 sense for the Lord Chancellor's ears." 
 
 "It's a mistake," interposed Montague, with the air 
 of a deep thinker making a statement that should be 
 remembered and handed down to one's children's chil- 
 dren, "that they have music at lunch here, a band at 
 a meal is a skeleton at a banquet." 
 
 Gwendolen threw light on the origin of the orchestra 
 in English hotels. 
 
 "It was introduced to prevent us from hearing the 
 Germans eat," she mentioned. "With them mastication 
 is a form of music. I remember some years ago I was 
 dining too near the band at the Savoy, and a big 
 German, a very unsuccessful feeder, was quite indig- 
 nant. 'Himmel!' he exclaimed, 'wid all zis noise I can- 
 not hear meinself eat !' or he ought to have." 
 
 Strangely enough, Richard was the topic of conver- 
 sation at the other table a conversation in which 
 Croxpeth took no manner of interest. 
 
 It had come about in this way. The morality of 
 the Bar had been discussed. Lashbridge had stated 
 that, although barristers never seemed to make their 
 own wills, they always seemed to be able to keep out 
 of the divorce court "and yet," he added, "barristers 
 generally have such alarmingly ugly wives." 
 
 "We generally marry when we're very young," 
 explained Tufnell; "before we have any value in the 
 marriage market. Therefore, we do not get the pick 
 of the bunch. Again, the barristers who don't marry 
 young lead a rather gay life. When they've sown as
 
 206 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 many wild oats as they decently can, they retire from 
 agriculture and become tame husbands. Do they, 
 Tremayne, or do they not? They're fools if they 
 don't." 
 
 The Chancellor, thus negatively appealed to, nodded 
 assent. White-haired, heavy, strongly built, with a 
 very aquiline nose, clear-cut, clean-shaven features, 
 feathery eyebrows over piercing grey eyes, he was a 
 fine figure of a man, an ideal figure of a Chancellor, 
 infinitely more like Thomas a Becket than Thomas 
 a Becket ever could have been. The sternness of his 
 countenance indicated the sternness of his morals. He 
 had never given a man an appointment simply because 
 the man was eminently unfitted for the post. 
 
 "Yet," pursued Lashbridge, "barristers are men. 
 How is it, Lord Tremayne, that we never have any 
 scandals in which they are involved? K.C.'s, for 
 instance, never seem to get into trouble." 
 
 "It would mean death to them if they did," explained 
 the Chancellor, whose voice was somewhat gruff, his 
 delivery slow and ponderous. "If a King's Counsel 
 were mixed up in any scandal, his practice would imme- 
 diately cease." 
 
 "I see. Now what's the procedure? If a man wants 
 to become a K.C. he writes to you, doesn't he?" 
 
 "That is so : and to his seniors on his circuit, notify- 
 ing them of his intention." 
 
 "Well, then, if you know anything against the man's 
 character, do you refuse to give him silk, as you 
 call it?" 
 
 "Certainly," replied the Chancellor ; "if I know any- 
 thing definite, anything serious against a man's charac- 
 ter, I should think him unworthy to be a King's 
 Counsel. I should refuse to give him silk."
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 207 
 
 "Take a case," insisted Lashbridge, who seemed 
 intensely interested in the matter. "Suppose that a 
 barrister were living with another man's wife, would 
 you give him silk?" 
 
 "I should refuse it. I do not desire to see news- 
 paper placards headed 'K.C. in the Divorce Court.' 
 Such a thing would bring great discredit on the pro- 
 fession." 
 
 "And your refusal would practically ruin him!" 
 
 "It would prevent him rising to any sort of eminence 
 at the Bar." 
 
 Lord Tremayne's strong yellow teeth snapped with 
 decision. 
 
 Lashbridge turned to Sir James, a note of sympathy 
 in his voice: 
 
 "That's hard lines on our friend Meyville." 
 
 The Judge shot an angry glance in reply. 
 
 Interested, Tremayne leaned forward. 
 
 "Do you mean Richard Meyville? Is there anything 
 of that sort against him?" 
 
 "Something very beautiful of that sort," Lash- 
 bridge answered. "She is sitting over there with 
 him. You see four people at that table a waiter 
 like a Roman emperor is attending to them. That's 
 the woman, the handsome woman with the black 
 hair." 
 
 "But which of the men is he? I've heard a great 
 deal about him a brilliant young man, they tell me. 
 But I've never seen him. Obviously, the younger one. 
 A fine legal face," commented the Chancellor, adjust- 
 ing his glasses. "By Jove, they're a handsome 
 couple." 
 
 "And a happy couple." 
 
 "What a pity !"
 
 208 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "The other man," said Lashbridge, "is his brother, 
 Cliftonville, the actor." 
 
 "I see." Again his teeth snapped. 
 
 Lashbridge, throwing a reassuring glance at Sir 
 James, defended Richard. 
 
 "I cannot seriously believe that you would stop a 
 man midway in his career because he loves a woman 
 who isn't his wife. We have paid high enough prices 
 before now owing to our belief that morality is more 
 important than mind. In my own day England has 
 lost three great men through this creed. She has 
 within the last twenty years sacrificed two great poli- 
 ticians and one great poet on an altar which she herself 
 does not believe to exist." 
 
 Tremayne returned definitely to the point. 
 
 "Does this woman live with her husband?" 
 
 "She lives in her husband's house." 
 
 "Then," said the Chancellor with deliberation, "the 
 man is a common thief." 
 
 Clearly, he had not yet forgotten what was nearly 
 a tragedy in his own career. He still remembered Vin- 
 cent Skene's affair with his wife, and a sinister and 
 tragic day at the Old Bailey. 1 
 
 "Nonsense," interposed the Judge. "I don't agree 
 with either of you. Am I a fool or am I not? Don't 
 think of it. Morals have nothing to do with integrity. 
 But a man who cannot conduct his own affairs without 
 getting into trouble is not the man to look after a 
 client's affairs or the affairs of the nation. This young 
 fellow has a great public future before him. You can 
 rely on him to look after his private life." 
 
 Lashbridge gazed intently at the Judge as he spoke. 
 
 1 See "The King's Counsel."
 
 THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND LUNCH 209 
 
 The Chancellor shrugged his shoulders. He seemed 
 to have decided the case. Out of courtesy, however, 
 he asked apparently with interest: 
 
 "Has he ever appeared before you, Jimmie?" 
 
 "Yes ; he's a first-rate lawyer, an excellent speaker, 
 and" here was the crowning glory "very respectful 
 to the Bench." 
 
 "Well, I hope he'll give this woman up." 
 
 "He won't !" cried the Judge, banging his hand on 
 the table. "Is he a damned scoundrel or is he not? 
 I'm damned if he is." 
 
 "Will she give him up?" 
 
 "Never," said Lashbridge. "That's where she differs 
 from an ordinary English woman. She is, in some 
 ways, almost French. A French woman, as a rule, has 
 one lover and sticks to him. An English woman is a 
 collector." 
 
 "Then, Jimmie, when he sends in his application if 
 he does which he must, I should say, fairly soon I 
 shall refuse it. And you, as you take so much interest 
 in the young man, had better give him a hint. Then 
 if he behaves properly, he can apply again." 
 
 He rose. 
 
 As the men were walking through the Palm Court, 
 Sir James grimly said to Lashbridge: 
 
 "You were indiscreet." 
 
 Lashbridge, burning, affected humility. 
 
 "I'm frightfully sorry. I had no idea how strict the 
 rules of your Trades Union are. I had no idea that 
 the Lord Chancellor was a great moral force. I hope 
 I haven't done young Meyville any harm." 
 
 "I'm afraid you have very grievous harm." 
 
 "It's a terrible thing to have done your young friend 
 an unconscious injury."
 
 210 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "It is. Can there be two opinions about it? There 
 cannot." 
 
 "Don't say a word about it to him. I must explain 
 the matter myself." 
 
 "Possibly you will be able to do it more easily 
 than I. No, you cannot drop me anywhere, thank you. 
 He is getting into Mrs. Ainslie's motor while Tremayne 
 is looking on. You've done him a most serious injury." 
 
 It was precisely with that object that Lashbridge 
 had arranged this pleasant little lunch.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 
 
 FOE half-past four on the following Thursday a 
 consultation had been fixed in the Sudbury-on-Tritham 
 Electric Tramways Bill at the chambers of Mr. Gregg 
 in Parliament Street. 
 
 At a quarter to five Richard dashed up in a han- 
 som. Snatching a huge batch of papers from his junior 
 clerk, who was waiting, he entered the august presence 
 of the eminent K.C. 
 
 Stout, puffy and pompous, with a face like a bull- 
 frog, skin of an apoplectic texture, large, aggressive 
 eyes glaring under wrinkled eyelids through glittering 
 gold spectacles, he sat with his back to the light at 
 the end of a long table covered with papers, massive 
 remunerative documents. In the dismal, dirty room, 
 furnished mainly with statutes and reports and blue- 
 books, there was no attempt at decoration. On the 
 dull green distempered walls hung two or three dis- 
 coloured maps, the sole sacrifice to art in the place. 
 Some maps are less interesting than others. Some are, 
 at any rate, suggestive of blue skies and limpid air and 
 sun-kissed palms. These maps only suggested drabness 
 and gloom. They might have been maps of Wal- 
 thamstow Without or Ponder's End. On each side of 
 the table were seated promoters, solicitors, engineers, 
 expert witnesses, and others, their eyes fixed on the 
 man at the end. 
 
 Richard had never seen him before, though he, of 
 course, knew him by reputation. His reputation con-
 
 212 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 sisted merely in the fact that he made 30,000 a year 
 at the Parliamentary Bar. 
 
 At first glance the bloated appearance of this sexa- 
 genarian was a blow to Richard. The K.C. looked 
 more like a beadle than anything else. 
 
 Richard walked towards him and placed his papers 
 on the table. 
 
 Mr. Gregg stared at him. He did not offer his 
 hand. Mr. Gregg's stare was, in very truth, the secret 
 of his huge success. It had made him Standing Coun- 
 sel to half our railway companies, many of our wealthi- 
 est corporations, and the ideal advocate of the pro- 
 moters of piers, tramways, docks, &c. The glare had 
 earned him the invaluable reputation of never deceiving 
 a Committee. Therefore, all promoters of possibly 
 possible schemes desired his assistance. True, his 
 respect for his own reputation prevented him from 
 actually appearing in the committee rooms in a promi- 
 nent manner on their behalf. But he would drop in 
 to examine an influential witness He would aggres- 
 sively cross-examine at great length a witness of no 
 possible importance. 
 
 In cases which he actually fought he gave the glare 
 full play. Electrical or mechanical engineers, friends 
 of his own, hearty diners at his home, blurted out incon- 
 venient truths when suddenly confronted by the glare. 
 He would turn it on learned brothers who made valid, 
 objections to such and such proceedings. The glare 
 destroyed the vitality of the objections. Even on 
 chairmen of the Committee would he turn the glare. 
 Instantly they saw the error of their ways. Unhap- 
 pily, the nature of the glare is indescribable, as the 
 glare itself is inimitable. It was, perhaps, the horror 
 of superhuman intelligence at incredible ignorance.
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 213 
 
 Also, as has been stated, it was worth 30,000 a 
 year. 
 
 When Richard said: 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Mr. Gregg, but I was detained at 
 the Old Bailey," he received the glare in its most acute 
 form. 
 
 The effect on him was curious. He had just won 
 an unexpected acquittal in a charge against a curate, 
 and he felt in high humour with himself. The glare 
 struck him it must be said as comic! 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 But, of course, only slightly. 
 
 "Where?" The voice of the fat man was shrill, a 
 voice entirely out of harmony with his architecture, out 
 of all harmony with the glare. 
 
 The smile broadened. "The Old Bailey in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 The glare ricochetted, and Mr. Gregg, aghast, sank 
 back into his chair. 
 
 The promoters, the solicitors, the various experts 
 were nervous at the tension. 
 
 Then Richard sat down in the chair on his leader's 
 right. 
 
 Mr. Gregg's frame heaved with ill-suppressed indig- 
 nation. This was the first time in all his experience 
 that the glare had failed. 
 
 At length he spoke, panting: 
 
 "That's all, I think, gentlemen?" 
 
 Obviously Richard was not included in the question. 
 
 In a courteous but unconcerned voice he addressed 
 Gregg: 
 
 "There are one or two points " 
 
 "We've been into them before you came," frowned 
 the great K.C.
 
 214 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "I'm very sorry, but " 
 
 Utterly ignoring him, the other turned to a genial 
 old gentleman, six feet high and massively handsome, 
 a leading expert in tramways: 
 
 "A word with you, Mr. Hodgkins." 
 
 This was the signal to terminate the consultation. 
 
 Richard, as the others filed out of the room, felt 
 that it would be useless for him to remain behind. Mr. 
 Milbury, however, an energetic and bustling little man, 
 prematurely middle-aged, with a round face, turned- 
 down collar, red tie, and fluttering coat-tails, intruded 
 himself on Mr. Gregg. He did not like the manner in 
 which the leader had treated Richard. He foresaw 
 trouble, and he blamed himself. For he recognised 
 that he had not asked him what junior he would prefer. 
 Already he regretted that Meyville had been briefed. 
 Mr. Gregg might easily have revenge for a slight by 
 not attending at all to the Sudbury-on-Tritham Elec- 
 tric Tramway Bill. For a great man, Mr. Gregg 
 was singularly liable to be discomposed by small 
 things. 
 
 "At eleven to-morrow, Mr. Gregg, eh?" 
 
 The glare came into operation. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Lord Lashbridge is the chairman." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 Then Mr. Milbury retreated. 
 
 On Richard's return to the Temple, somewhat mysti- 
 fied by the first meeting with a Parliamentary lawyer, 
 Moseley produced a barrister's bag made of some silky 
 red fabric, with "R. M." embroidered on it in white. 
 
 "Mr. Charles Gault has sent you this, sir." 
 
 Richard expressed delight. Charlie Gault was one 
 of the most popular men at the Bar. It pleased him
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 215 
 
 very much that the gift should have come from that 
 genial K. C. 
 
 "You ought to have had a red bag long ago, sir. 
 Still, perhaps it looked more unobtrusive to use a blue 
 one when you were so obviously entitled to the other. 
 Anyhow, it's just in time." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "You know, sir, that you aren't allowed to take a 
 blue bag into the Committee Rooms." A little uneasily 
 he asked, "Have you never been into a Committee 
 Room, sir?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "If I had known that, I should have advised you to 
 go down and take a look round. However," he added, 
 with every confidence in Richard, "you'll pick it up 
 easily enough, sir. The procedure is simple enough. 
 More like a drawing-room than anything else." 
 
 Richard thought that Gregg's manner would be 
 somewhat more out of place in a drawing-room than 
 anywhere else. 
 
 Then the clerk obtained permission to give Mr. 
 Gault's clerk the usual receipt of a guinea on the pre- 
 sentation of a red bag, and retired. 
 
 The telephone bell rang. 
 
 "Is that you, Dick?" 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "All right about Saturday?" 
 
 A smile came into his face. 
 
 "Yes, darling." 
 
 "Nothing can possibly interfere?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "I am still your favourite person?" 
 
 "First favourite. The rest, non-starters." 
 
 "Something's worrying you."
 
 216 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "How the dickens can you tell?" 
 
 "By my darling's voice." 
 
 "You know me too well!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Nothing much. But I'm appearing in the Lords 
 to-morrow for the first time. And I'm not sure of 
 myself." 
 
 "Is my love in a blue funk?" 
 
 "No," he laughed, "but a little nervous. Lashbridge 
 is the chairman." 
 
 "He'll help you." 
 
 "I'm hanged if he shall!" 
 
 "Anyhow, you'll be all right. And you'll tell me all 
 about it on Saturday. I'm only just living till then." 
 
 "Same here. Good-bye, darling." 
 
 The next morning Richard, walking across the Park 
 on his way to Westminster, caught sight of Gwendolen 
 riding by the baby-walk. He waved to her, and she 
 came up to the railings for a chat. On a handsome 
 bay hack, and wearing a perfectly cut grey habit, she 
 looked, perhaps, at her best. The graceful lines of 
 her figure were in marked contrast to the heavy limp- 
 ness or too sharp outlines of the other women. She 
 beamed with happiness and was anxious to talk. But 
 he was in a hurry. So, having received a few words 
 of encouragement as to the Lords, and certain instruc- 
 tions as to Saturday, he crossed the Row in high 
 spirits. What did the Lords matter when he was 
 loved with such a love by such a woman? 
 
 He turned admiring eyes to follow her. Fred 
 Robinson, an obscure novelist, with a figure like a note 
 of interrogation, in a white bowler, and riding a light 
 chestnut, joined her. He toyed with an imaginary 
 whisker, and she laughed encouragingly.
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 217 
 
 "Good Heavens!" thought Richard, "she's the best- 
 natured woman in the world to stand a man like 
 that." 
 
 Moscley met Richard in the lobby of the House of 
 Commons and preceded him down a narrow, iron- 
 balustraded staircase into the barristers' robing-room, 
 a sort of cellar, looking out on to a courtyard. Here 
 several counsel, leaders and juniors, all strangers to 
 Richard, were being robed by their clerks while talking 
 familiarly to one another. He could hear whispers, 
 not altogether friendly, of "Who's that?" So far as 
 he could gather, the question could not be satisfactorily 
 answered. The atmosphere seemed hostile. And, in- 
 deed, it was. The Parliamentary Bar is a close cor- 
 poration, to which admission should be obtained in the 
 orthodox way one should be the pupil of a Parliamen- 
 tary counsel, or the son of a Parliamentary agent, or 
 the near relative of a peer. One should certainly not 
 be an Old Bailey barrister. None of these men knew 
 that Richard had ever appeared at the Old Bailey, 
 or, indeed, that he was Richard Meyville. But they 
 saw that he was a stranger, and they felt that they 
 did not need him among the flesh-pots. The richer 
 the flesh-pots, the more zealously must they be guarded. 
 
 Richard found himself in a large, airy room with 
 windows overlooking the Thames. In front of him, at 
 a horseshoe table, sat the committee, with Lashbridge 
 in the centre. On the wall facing the windows was a 
 huge map of Sudbury-on-Tritham. 
 
 On his right-hand side were the score or so of coun- 
 sel employed in the case. They appeared for the bor- 
 ough council, the local county council, all sorts of 
 councils, railway companies, frontages, and private 
 owners. Many were there simply to say that they did
 
 218 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 not propose to offer any opposition. Some were pre- 
 pared to settle on terms. At the long table, littered 
 with red bags, documents, and plans, they were sitting 
 in uncomfortable confusion, in places, two or three 
 deep. 
 
 Richard's brand new bag amongst the old and dingy 
 ones made a scarlet note of colour, not at all pleasing 
 to him. Its newness looked terribly amateurish. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Godalming, the solicitor for the pro- 
 moters, a good-looking, middle-aged man with an eye- 
 glass, tapped him on the back : 
 
 "Mr. Gregg's clerk has just told me that he can't 
 get away from a committee of the Commons. You'll 
 have to open." 
 
 "Very well," said Richard. But a cold shudder 
 ran down his back. He had never expected to make the 
 opening speech, though, of course, he had prepared 
 notes. He would have given anything to have, once 
 in his life, heard somebody perform the task. A prece- 
 dent would have helped him vastly. As things were, 
 he was like a bridegroom who, at the . altar rails, is 
 suddenly called upon to perform the ceremony. 
 
 "Why didn't that infernal old Gregg come?" he 
 asked himself. 
 
 Why? For these reasons. During the last two 
 years he had noticed that his powers, except those of 
 over-eating, were on the wane. He had, therefore, 
 abandoned, as far as possible, the most difficult parts 
 of the Bills for which he was retained. He preferred 
 to examine certain unimportant witnesses at great 
 length, or to cross-examine witnesses who were un- 
 familiar with Committees, if his case was a poor one. 
 If, on the other hand, its preamble was likely to be 
 proved, he would devote a good deal of his attention
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 219 
 
 to it. But the preamble of the Sudbury-on-Tritham 
 Electric Tramways Bill stood little chance of passing 
 the Lords. Further, its promoters were not overbur- 
 dened with money. They had, indeed, only employed 
 two counsel, and they had not consulted him as to his 
 junior. They had chosen an Old Bailey barrister! 
 Pshaw ! He was well out of it. It was much better 
 for him to sit in a Committee of the Commons listening 
 to Mr. Balfour Browne. 
 
 Richard rose and began his speech to interested 
 silence. All the counsel by now knew who he was. He 
 was the man who defended the Yoghi the worst type 
 of Yoghi. Were there ndt plenty of good men at the 
 Parliamentary Bar who could be employed without 
 going to the Central Criminal Court to get hold of 
 defenders of Yoghis? He was a good-looking, clever- 
 looking man. If he succeeded with the Bill and old 
 Gregg had been foolish enough to give him the chance 
 he might come permanently to Westminster. That 
 would take bread out of somebody's mouth possibly 
 mine so each argued. 
 
 Obviously, he was nervous. For the first time in 
 his life he felt himself nervous. The fact alarmed him. 
 He almost regarded it as a symptom of disease. Some- 
 times the word would not come. Sometimes he got 
 entangled in a phrase. Perspiration came to his brow. 
 He was making a desperately bad show and before 
 Lashbridge. Suddenly some one rose to object he 
 mentioned something about Standing Orders. Now 
 Richard knew no more about the Standing Orders of 
 the House of Lords than he knew about Cyclopaean 
 architecture in Polynesia. 
 
 Evidently the other man expected a reply. Richard 
 had none to give him. There was silence. Then Lash-
 
 220 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 bridge explained the matter, adding, "Perhaps Mr. 
 Meyville is not very familiar with the procedure of 
 the committees at present," he added, with a kindly 
 smile that sent the blood hotly through the barrister's 
 veins. 
 
 Richard, apparently, could say nothing right or in 
 the right way. He was as one attempting to play 
 cricket by the rules of football. At almost every sen- 
 tence came interruption or objection. Lashbridge 
 though a smile, half concealed behind his hand, and 
 very galling to the embarrassed counsel, played about 
 his lips evidently did his best to help. But the per- 
 formance was absolutely humiliating. 
 
 Help, however, came from Lord Robert Stackville, 
 a son of Lord Wiltshire's, a long, stooping man with 
 the wan, eager face of the Stackvilles, and the long, 
 lean, talented hands of that brilliant stock. 
 
 He appeared for the Sudbury-on-Tritham District 
 Council, which was in favour of the scheme. He courte- 
 ously brought considerable light to Richard's quick 
 intelligence. 
 
 Then things improved ; he began to feel his ground. 
 
 But Godalming, in despair, had rushed off to pro- 
 cure Gregg. He brought him back, almost by main 
 force, puffing and furious. 
 
 He interrupted the miserable Richard to administer 
 advice and maledictions which made the position all 
 the worse. At last he blurted out audible to all the 
 room "You infernal idiot." 
 
 Richard paused, looked down at him with burning 
 eyes. Then, calmly to the Committee: 
 
 "My lords, I think it would be more convenient both 
 for the committee and myself if my learned friend on 
 the other side would cease his obstruction."
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 221 
 
 Everyone held his breath. Never had Gregg been 
 so insulted. 
 
 "I quite agree with you, Mr. Meyville," said Lash- 
 bridge firmly. 
 
 Gregg rose, purple with passion, giving the glare 
 full play. 
 
 "That is your lordship's opinion?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Then there is only one course open to me." 
 
 "Which you will, therefore, be compelled to take." 
 
 A mountain of defeated pomposity, Gregg lumbered 
 out of the room. 
 
 This episode, astounding to practitioners at West- 
 minster, where a "scene" is practically unknown, gave 
 new confidence to Richard. He felt himself at home in 
 the King's Bench. He finished his speech in a few 
 minutes, and then called his first witness. Examina- 
 tion-in-chief is almost as difficult, though not so showy 
 an art, as cross-examination. 
 
 Now Richard was a master of it, and although 
 the latitude allowed in questions by the commit- 
 tee simplified the task enormously, yet his skill was 
 evident. 
 
 At lunch-time Moseley brought him sandwiches and 
 a whisky-and-soda, whispering in a confident voice, 
 "It's all right, sir." 
 
 These words were balm to him. 
 
 His witnesses turned out well, and he got the best 
 out of them. The holes made in their armour by the 
 other side he skilfully repaired under cross-examina- 
 tion. When the committee adjourned till Monday, he 
 had thrust the memory of his opening speech to the 
 back of his brain. 
 
 The robing-room was full, vibrant with talk. On his
 
 222 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 entrance a hush fell over it. In his shirt by the win- 
 dow stood Gregg, arranging his tie. 
 
 Instantly he turned to Richard: 
 
 "What do you mean, young man what the devil 
 do you mean by calling me 'on the other side' me, 
 your leader?" 
 
 The young man walked up to him and said calmly 
 but deliberately: 
 
 "Because you called me an 'infernal idiot,' so I called 
 you the rudest thing I could think of at the moment. 
 But I've had time to think over the matter, and I 
 can be much more accurate now if you like." 
 
 He was prepared to use the word "cad." 
 
 Gregg foresaw it, and shrank from it. There were 
 several men in the room who hoped for it. 
 
 Gregg, however, conscious, it may have been, that 
 the word was well deserved, closed the episode by turn- 
 ing abruptly away, growling gruffly to himself. 
 
 To John Moseley this scene, witnessed by King's 
 Counsel, stuff-gownsmen, and clerks, appeared very ill- 
 advised. He respected age. He respected success. 
 Also, Richard's attack on an eminent man wounded 
 him in his tenderest part, his respect for the tradition 
 of the Bar. 
 
 Sympathetic winks from other clerks reassured him 
 in a measure. Richard's conduct must have done him 
 an immense amount of good or an immense amount of 
 harm. As he helped him off with his robes, handed 
 him his tie and hat, he looked curiously into his face. 
 As Richard tied his tie his eyes calmly regarded his 
 reflection in the glass. His mouth was compressed, his 
 chin looked aggressive. A tiring, embarrassing, almost 
 disastrous day had produced no effect upon him. 
 
 The thought that summed up the matter in John's
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 223 
 
 mind was, "I've backed a winner in a big race." 
 
 The two went up to the lobby, which was thronged 
 by bustling, busy people who seemed to bustle about no 
 particular business. Many other people watched this 
 performance with reverent awe. 
 
 "Are you coming back to the Temple, sir?" 
 
 "Not unless there is a conference. I tell you what, 
 I'm dead tired. I'm afraid I've made an awful mess 
 of it." 
 
 "No, sir, I think not. We began badly. But we're 
 all right now, sir." Then, confidentially, he continued, 
 "It's a pity that you haven't had any experience of 
 this sort of work. But somehow or other we must get 
 out of this." 
 
 "I agree. How? How can I learn Parliamentary 
 procedure in twenty minutes?" 
 
 "I've arranged it, sir." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 John became more confidential. 
 
 "You know Mr. Torrance?" 
 
 Richard knew him by name as a K.C. who did a 
 great deal of Parliamentary work. 
 
 "Well, sir, he's in a very bad way just now. You 
 know, he made a lot of bad investments speculations 
 in concerns he appeared for wild-cat, some of 'em. If 
 he'd gone bankrupt it would have been all up with 
 him just the same as if he had been mixed up in a 
 divorce case. So he arranged with his creditors. His 
 clerk's his receiver for his fees. They allow him 
 2,000 a year. And he'll pay them off. Torrance is 
 an honourable man, sir." 
 
 "But how does the honesty or impecuniosity of Mr. 
 Torrance help me?" 
 
 "In this way. He's coming to the Temple on Sun-
 
 224 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 day morning at 11 o'clock to go through the case with 
 you. We shall have the printed shorthand note to- 
 morrow morning, and he'll tell you exactly what to do. 
 In a few hours you, sir, being what you are, will know 
 as much as he does." 
 
 "I shall be out of town on Sunday." 
 
 John's figure straightened. His eyes were piercing. 
 He was no longer the clerk. He was the partner. The 
 dominant partner. 
 
 "No, you will be in the Temple on Sunday. This 
 Bill has got to be pulled through." 
 
 Richard hesitated. John's eyes searched his face. 
 
 "I don't know, sir, that there are any courts in 
 England that sit on Sunday. I, as your clerk, know 
 of no appointment for Sunday." 
 
 He was compelled io yield: 
 
 "I will be there." 
 
 "Fifty guineas was the sum I mentioned to Mr. 
 Torrance." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that a K.C. takes money 
 for tutoring ?" 
 
 "He has a son in a cavalry regiment." 
 
 "Fifty guineas is a lot of money." 
 
 "It would be worth your while to pay five hun- 
 dred guineas to get this Bill through. And, judg- 
 ing by Lord Lashbridge's manner, he'll help you 
 all he can. Which is a lot. He is the com- 
 mittee." 
 
 "John, you're wonderful. I shall not come to cham- 
 bers to-morrow. Eleven o'clock on Sunday." 
 
 At that moment Sir Andrew Kytnow, the member 
 for South Kensington* hailed him: 
 
 "Hullo, Meyville. How are you? I hear you've 
 fallen foul of Gregg. Quite right. Pompous ass! I
 
 "SHE OUGHT TO BE DEAD" 225 
 
 always snub him myself when he appears before me 
 on committees. And how is Mrs. Ainslie?" 
 
 John turned away with an almost imperceptible 
 shrug of the shoulders. "She ought to be dead," he 
 said to himself.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "WOPSERING" 
 
 RICHARD drove to Green Street, where he found 
 Gwen in the drawing-room. Unfortunately, in the com- 
 pany of Wilfred. 
 
 The little man welcomed him with enthusiastic re- 
 proaches. 
 
 "My dear Richard, I'm delighted to see you. I 
 hardly ever see anything of you. Since you've done 
 so well for yourself, you don't seem to remember your 
 old friend and lately I've been far from well, very 
 far from well, indeed." 
 
 Gwen interposed: 
 
 "Much farther from well than usual by many hun- 
 dred cubits." 
 
 "Gwen does not exaggerate. Some of my symptoms 
 are probably unique in the history of medicine. I have 
 serious thoughts on my death which cannot be long 
 delayed of bequeathing my body to the Royal College 
 of Surgeons. It would be a revelation to that most 
 incompetent of all professions. I tell you," he con- 
 tinued very seriously, "if I'd employed a medical man 
 I'd be dead, Richard, that's what I'd be not to mince 
 matters dead !" 
 
 "Oh, Wilfred! don't be absurd!" smiled his wife. 
 
 "She takes no interest in me, not a particle. She's 
 as strong as a horse. Doesn't know what a headache 
 is, certainly not on.e of my headaches."
 
 "WOPSERING" 227 
 
 He spoke as though he had invented a special brand. 
 "And she's jealous of the interest that people take in 
 me. Now, I don't tell everybody, Richard" here he 
 took the young man familiarly by the arm "what I'm 
 going to tell you." 
 
 And, in spite of Gwen's remonstrance, he gave Rich- 
 ard a good half hour's lecture on his miscellaneous 
 maladies. 
 
 "My dear Wilfred," said Gwen when he had finished, 
 "all this is due to your taking a course of Dr. John- 
 son's Radium Pills for Robust People. They didn't 
 agree with you at all." 
 
 "I must try everything, mustn't I? Besides, there 
 aren't such pills." 
 
 "I know," she said sweetly. "You think yourself 
 a sort of Registry Office for Patent Medicines in which 
 a sample must be deposited." 
 
 He ignored her definition and appealed to Dick. 
 
 "She takes no notice of me. Just when I want to 
 go and have a look at Harrogate to see if it might 
 suit me, she goes off to-morrow to stay with people 
 of the name of Wopser !" 
 
 An uncontrollable smile came over Richard's face. 
 He dared not look at Gwen. 
 
 "You may laugh, but there are such people the 
 Reverend Wopser, Theodore Wopser. Gwen was at 
 school with his wife. A wretched little country parson 
 in the vicarage where there isn't room to swing a 
 cat !" 
 
 "Clergymen do not require to swing cats. They 
 are kind-hearted as a class," Richard said, by way of 
 excuse for his continued merriment. 
 
 "Anyhow, there's not room for Gwen's maid. But 
 Gwen is so fond of Mrs. Wopser devil of a name
 
 228 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 that's she always week-ending there. How often have 
 you been to the Wopsers' this year?" 
 
 He turned to his wife, who, vibrating with laugh- 
 ter, held Les Egarements de Marcel, the latest 
 atrocity of I'ineffable Boulevardier "Willy," before her 
 face. 
 
 "About six times." 
 
 "I see nothing funny," he exclaimed with vacant eyes. 
 "Richard, you have influence with my wife. Can't you 
 persuade her to drop the Wopsers ? I am sure they are 
 awful people though I've never seen them. What a 
 name! Wopser! My God! Anyhow, Gwen, I will 
 never have the Wopsers in my house. How could I 
 say to any friend of mine: 'Allow me to introduce 
 you to Mr. Wopser.' I couldn't do it." 
 
 "The Wopsers will not come here, dear. Nelly Wop- 
 ser has a great aversion to invalids." 
 
 "Good." Then seized with an idea, he asked Rich- 
 ard to accompany him to Harrogate. 
 
 Richard pleaded work in the Temple. 
 
 "That's a lie," said Wilfred. "I know it's a lie; 
 I can always tell when anyone lies to me. If Gwen were 
 to tell me a lie, I could detect it at once. She knows 
 that as well as I do, and doesn't dare to. It's a fact, 
 old chap." 
 
 Gwen shot an incredulous glance at him. 
 
 "You never do ant/thing for me." Her husband 
 asked querulously, "How often do I invite you to lunch 
 or dinner and you don't come? Even Gwen is annoyed 
 every now and then. I'm not going to Harrogate 
 alone. I shall now go to the Club and try and get some 
 one to come with me. And the chances are a thousand 
 to one I shall find a bore. There's one thing I can't 
 tolerate, and that's a bore."
 
 "WOPSERING" 229 
 
 When he had gone huffily out of the room, Richard 
 said: 
 
 "If that is really his view of bores, suicide is his only 
 course." 
 
 In an instant they were in each other's arms. 
 
 "You must love me very much to stand him," she 
 smilingly said. 
 
 He threw himself into a chair. 
 
 "Tired?" she asked. "You're overworking. There 
 are lines round your dear eyes. I don't like them. 
 Remember, I love you for your looks alone, and I don't 
 know what these lines come from. I'll kiss the lines 
 away." 
 
 Abruptly, he said: 
 
 "Wopsering is off." 
 
 She jumped up from his knees. 
 
 There was a flash of anger in her eyes : 
 
 "You're joking. You oughtn't to joke about that. 
 That's sacred." 
 
 "I'm not joking." 
 
 "Oh, this is too cruel," she cried. "I've been think- 
 ing about to-morrow for days. You can't disappoint 
 me. What are you going to do? Why can't we go 
 to the St. Alphonse. You've taken the suite. What 
 has happened?" Then in a softened tone, "My darling 
 isn't ill?" 
 
 He told her of what had happened in the Lords and 
 of his appointment for Sunday. As a human being 
 she was reasonable: as a woman she was a woman. 
 She admitted that she must yield. But she shed a few 
 tears. 
 
 "Forgive me," she said, brushing them away, "but I 
 was looking forward to it so much." 
 
 A woman doesn't need to be a coquette when she is
 
 230 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 sure of a man's love. In such a case coquetry is an 
 insult either to his intelligence or to her own. 
 
 "So was I. But we can Wopser next week." 
 
 "Promise," she insisted, her fingers closing over his. 
 
 "I swear." 
 
 The process of Wopsering was simple. 
 
 Gwen would drive in a cab to Victoria Station, and 
 have her luggage very little taken to the cloak- 
 room. Then she would apparently change her mind, 
 employ another porter, have the luggage placed inside 
 a four-wheeler, and drive to the St. Alphonse Hotel, 
 where Richard, as Mr. Mason, had engaged a con- 
 venient suite, from which they did not emerge till Mon- 
 day morning. 
 
 In consideration of Nelly Wopser's slight collabora- 
 tion in the matter, the wife of the impecunious Theobald 
 was the best-dressed woman in the parish owing to 
 clothes for which Gwen had no further use. Had it 
 not been for the beauty of her apparel, it is doubtful 
 whether Mrs. Wopser "Mrs. Alibi" as Richard called 
 her would have found favour in the sight of a some- 
 what critical stockbroker in the district. 
 
 "Anyhow, Richard, you can take me to St. Alphonse 
 to-morrow night. I shall have the wire from Nelly, a 
 child will have whooping-cough. Wilfred will be at 
 Harrogate. Please ?" 
 
 The St. Alphonse is a convenient hotel in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Leicester-square, where, for a moderate 
 sum, a small suite of rooms can be obtained. The 
 cooking is excellent. The approach is ideal, at the 
 end of a long cul-de-sac, in which no person of any 
 social position is ever seen. 
 
 He suggested certain rooms off St. James's Street. 
 True, they were more costly. Still, now that he was
 
 "WOPSERING" 231 
 
 making money, he need not hesitate about finance. 
 And the rooms were really beautiful. 
 
 Suddenly he exclaimed: 
 
 "We needn't postpone the Wopsers at all. I can 
 leave you on Sunday morning, go to the Temple, and 
 come back to my darling, who will be waiting for me." 
 
 "Splendid !" she cried, clapping her hands together. 
 
 So the matter was settled. 
 
 "Be at the St. Alphonse at seven to-morrow," he 
 said as he went out. 
 
 "Wearing a dress of Paquin's that I know you'll 
 like." 
 
 In an ecstasy of contemplative delight Gwen threw 
 herself at full length on the sofa. 
 
 On the Sunday morning she awoke, heavy with love 
 languor. On our return to consciousness our first 
 thought is of the anxiety or the joy that occupied our 
 minds when we fell asleep. Her first thought was of 
 Richard. He obsessed her brain. And, as she turned, 
 wearily emerging from the clouds of sleep, she gave a 
 little cry of delight as she saw him by her side. How 
 splendid he looked ! His hair scarcely dishevelled, his 
 profile handsome in its irregularity, his neck like a white 
 column. For a dark man his skin seemed singularly 
 pale. He lay with his head turned towards her, in an 
 attitude of easy grace. She listened to his calm, regu- 
 lar breathing, the sweetest of all music in her ears. 
 With a rapid movement of her hand she scattered the 
 dream dust shed by Night, and sat up to gaze at him, 
 to absorb his beauty. But she hesitated to kiss his 
 closed eyelids, though she brought her lips down close 
 to his. He might wake. How lucky, indeed, was she 
 that he was altogether hers! And yet that calm face 
 belonged to a strenuous fighting man, a man who stood
 
 232 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 between shivering criminals and justice. From those 
 lips fell words that sent men into penal servitude. 
 Those lips kissed hers. From those eyes shot glances 
 that made trembling witnesses reveal their secrets. 
 Those eyes looked at her with love, only at her with 
 love. 
 
 "Darling Richard," she murmured, as she stole from 
 the room. 
 
 She returned, having bathed, and driven away the 
 mist of sleep, fragrant as a flower, her skin white and 
 inviting as a camelia. 
 
 In her eyes flashed two brilliant stars of tenderness 
 as she noticed that in his sleep his right arm had 
 stretched out to where her head had reposed. 
 
 She nestled by his side. 
 
 Instantly she saw a fluttering of his eyelashes. Then 
 the eyes opened, and his lips parted with a smile of 
 complete happiness. 
 
 Her white teeth, whiter by contrast with the full, 
 fresh lips, were irresistible. Instantly, he brushed away 
 the cobwebs of sleep. He kissed the violet rings under 
 her eyes. Her skin was cool, opalescent. He kissed 
 her on the lips; and his lips were held tight by 
 hers. 
 
 Again and again he kissed her lips with violent, 
 idolatrous love, the love that absorbs every method of 
 loving. The morning light played on her neck lending 
 it a sheen like satin. He kissed her neck. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, oh, Richard," she murmured. 
 
 At half-past ten he left the hotel and drove down 
 to the Temple. 
 
 There he found John, evidently in an evil humour.
 
 "WOPSERING" 233 
 
 "You look tired, sir," he said, with an almost 
 malicious twist of his mouth. "I thought perhaps you 
 weren't coming." His lips shut tight. 
 
 Abruptly Richard answered: 
 
 "Not coming!" Then, on his way through the pas- 
 sage he stopped and asked sternly, "What do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "I thought perhaps you might have a more im- 
 portant engagement." 
 
 The clerk's tone was irritating, practically imper- 
 tinent. 
 
 Richard, coldly surprised, stared at him. 
 
 "Mr. Torrance sent me a message yesterday to say 
 that 11.30 this morning would suit him better than 
 eleven. So I telephoned to Gloucester Terrace. Lady 
 Meyville told me you had gone to Brighton till Monday. 
 She didn't know which hotel. I tell you, sir, I didn't 
 know which way to turn. I couldn't believe that you'd 
 miss the appointment for anything. So I telephoned 
 to Mrs. Ainslie, and told her who I was, and explained 
 the matter. She said I needn't be uneasy, as she knew 
 for a fact that you'd come down this morning." 
 
 "I see. I said I would be here and I am am here." 
 
 But the clerk did not go. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It's very awkward for me, sir. I ought to know 
 where you are. Supposing anything were to happen 
 when you're supposed to be at Brighton?" 
 
 The emphasis went home. 
 
 The evident justice of the man's protest made it the 
 more galling. 
 
 "What made you think of Mrs. Ainslie? Why did 
 you telephone to Mrs. Ainslie?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 The clerk met his eyes and answered deliberately:
 
 234 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Oh I know, sir. And, what's more," the words 
 came hotly, "you ought to stop it." 
 
 Richard rose, livid. 
 
 "What the devil do you mean by talking to me like 
 that? How dare you? Are you my clerk or aren't 
 you?" 
 
 John was as white as the other. 
 
 "In a sense I am your partner, sir. And this may 
 ruin your practice." 
 
 He had shot a piercing shaft. 
 
 The position was intolerable. Barristers' clerks have 
 often remonstrated on the drinking habits of their 
 employers, have even dragged them reeling from the 
 neighbouring taverns. But, probably, never before had 
 a clerk attempted to interfere in a barrister's love 
 affairs. 
 
 Richard knew that the man was within his rights, 
 that he was giving from his point of view shrewd 
 counsel. Were not the idea itself so preposterous, John 
 would have been entitled to insist on his yielding. It 
 was not part of their bargain that he should render 
 himself amenable to the Divorce Court. Still, the notion 
 that anyone should attempt to bring about an estrange- 
 ment from Gwendolen struck him as grotesque. 
 
 He could not attack John. He could not defend him- 
 self. He, therefore, nodded as a dismissal: 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 The grim tone in which he spoke froze further con- 
 versation on John's lips. 
 
 He went from the room glad that he had said some- 
 thing, regretful that he had not said more. 
 
 At last Torrance arrived, a thin, grey man, with a 
 deep guttural voice and a coarse skin. His hands were 
 thin and very dry, almost colourless. His nose was
 
 "WOPSERING" 235 
 
 broad, intelligent, and aggressive. His brittle nails 
 were square, ribbed, and dirty. He was not modern, 
 and his face suggested that of an actor made up as 
 an attorney in some early Victorian play. 
 
 He placed on Richard's table the printed short- 
 hand note of Friday's evidence, which he had carefully 
 read, sat down, and adjusted a tortoise-shell- rimmed 
 pince-nez. 
 
 By one o'clock he had explained to Richard the errors 
 of his opening speech. 
 
 Then he said, brusquely, "Now we adjourn." 
 
 On their return from the Savoy, the K.C. explained 
 to his interested listener the best method of conducting 
 the Bill, and of replying for the promoters. Incidental- 
 ly, he congratulated him upon his examination of wit- 
 nesses, and made several bitter allusions to Mr. Gregg. 
 By five o'clock, when he rose to go, Richard had learnt a 
 vast amount about Parliamentary procedure; he felt 
 that he could go down to Westminster on Monday with 
 absolute confidence in himself, but with considerably 
 less in his case. 
 
 f \ Richard was profuse in his thanks as the lean K. C. 
 went out. 
 
 In the passage John handed him the hardly-earned 
 for a Parliamentary barrister fifty guineas in notes and 
 gold. 
 
 "Of course, this is between ourselves." 
 
 "Of course, sir." 
 
 "Your chief is a very clever young man. He will go 
 far. I wish I was beginning again," he added, with 
 something of a sigh. He wondered whether the fifty 
 guineas would be sufficient to get his son out of the 
 current scrape.
 
 236 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Immediately afterwards Richard, eager to rejoin 
 Gwen, left the Temple. 
 
 "John, Mr. Torrance doesn't seem to be very fond of 
 Mr. Gregg." 
 
 "No, sir. I have heard that Mr. Gregg let him into 
 a concern in which he lost twenty thousand pounds. 
 If it hadn't been for your little brush with Mr. Gregg 
 I don't think Mr. Torrance would have given you so 
 much time to-day. Anyway, it was because you were 
 against Mr. Gregg, and his being so hard up, that I 
 approached him." 
 
 "You're a diplomatist, John." 
 
 "A barrister's clerk has to be a bit of all sorts a bit 
 of a detective sometimes." 
 
 "Good day," he answered, not altogether pleased at 
 John's description of the versatility required in his calling. 
 
 At the hotel Gwen welcomed him with delight; she 
 didn't even reproach him for having been so long away. 
 
 "I've ordered dinner for seven sharp," she said; 
 "and I've ordered a simple, an absurd dinner. Lobster 
 a la Americalne and grouse and steak and Burgundy." 
 
 "Then," he smiled, "the manager will know we are 
 not married." 
 
 "And you are to have coffee to-night." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because coffee always keeps you awake." 
 
 "All right, darling." 
 
 Then he questioned her about John and the telephone 
 message. 
 
 Why hadn't she told him ? 
 
 "My dearest, when one is with the man one loves one 
 has one should have something better to talk about 
 than a telephone message from a complete stranger. To 
 have remembered it would have been an insult to you."
 
 "WOPSERING" 237 
 
 The dinner was delightful. 
 
 Both were in high spirits. 
 
 "By the bye," she said suddenly, leaning across 
 the table, the pink lights shining on the jewels on her 
 tapering, waxen fingers, "you ought to belong to the 
 Siddons Club and the Gridiron. And it's very nice of 
 me to make this suggestion, because I know what will 
 happen. After the theatre, you will go to supper at the 
 Siddons and I shall have to drive home alone with an 
 ache in my heart in a cold brougham. Oh, dearest, 
 you've no idea how cold a brougham feels, especially at 
 night, when you've got out of it. But you must cer- 
 tainly belong to the Gridiron. Belonging to the Grid- 
 iron registers a man as a celebrity and a good fellow." 
 
 The tone in which she gave this excellent advice was 
 caressing and tender. He took each hand and kissed it in 
 turn. 
 
 "Lashbridge tells me that he will propose you for 
 both." 
 
 Stiffly Richard answered : 
 
 "He will do nothing of the sort. I shall be put up by 
 Tufnell or Charlie Gault, or someone of my own pro- 
 fession." 
 
 "You're still stubborn about Lashbridge." 
 
 "I'm not going to accept favours from a man who is 
 in love with you." 
 
 "Would you like everybody else in the world to hate 
 me ? I believe you would." 
 
 "No," he said fiercely, but affectionately pressing 
 her cheeks: "I want everybody else to admire you 
 hopelessly." 
 
 "Lashbridge admires hopelessly." 
 
 "But he has the greatest chance." 
 
 "You know that?" she laughed.
 
 238 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "You like him, and he's the sort of man that would 
 suit you. You would get on with him. If I thought I 
 were telling you news, I shouldn't tell it you." 
 
 "Patrick." 
 
 "Irish, perhaps, but it expresses my feelings. If 
 anything were to happen to me, I believe Lashbridge 
 would be my successor." 
 
 "How little you know me," she protested, smiling 
 and shaking her head, "how foolishly, grotesquely little! 
 I'll tell you the truth. If I had met him before I met 
 you I might. A woman, a self-respecting woman, is 
 not going to her grave without finding out what love is. 
 She knows it means something. Curiosity compels 
 her to find out what. A lot of so-called love is merely 
 curiosity. But in you, my heart, I found love itself. 
 Many women go to their graves, contented mothers, 
 stolidly happy wives, without ever suspecting its real 
 existence." 
 
 "And I showed it to you?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, her eyes gleaming with happiness. 
 "That's why I must always love you. That's why you 
 
 must always love me. If any other woman But 
 
 she did not finish her sentence. A wild, strange gleam 
 came into her eyes. He had never seen her look like that 
 before. He had no knowledge of any action of hers which 
 could be in harmony with this strange expression. Evi- 
 dently in her temperament there existed a force of which 
 he was unaware. Just so he had, when reconstructing a 
 murder, imagined that the criminal had looked at the 
 moment of his crime. In this manner a tigress might 
 glare when fighting to the death for her young. Gwen 
 would fight to the death for his love. He kissed each 
 quivering eyelid, and when she looked at him again only 
 tenderness shone in her eyes.
 
 "WOPSERING" 239 
 
 Reassured, he laughed. 
 
 "Some souls," she said, "have the power of merging 
 themselves in another, and when the other is gone the 
 power of loving is gone too. One is compelled to live in 
 the memory of past happiness, happiness that I can't 
 explain, even to you!" 
 
 "The only possible explanation of happiness is that 
 well, that one is happy." 
 
 " And that one is going to be happy, eh ? It's half -past 
 ten. Time for all good barristers to be in bed."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A GREAT TRIUMPH 
 
 As RICHARD was leaving the St. Alphonse on the 
 Monday morning on his way to Westminster, he met 
 the manager of the hotel, the effulgent and suave Moziss. 
 
 "I hope you have been comfortable during your stay, 
 Mr. Meyville," he said with a bright, fat smile, and 
 cheerfully rubbing his hands together. 
 
 Richard threw him a quick glance. Why did this 
 man called him "Meyville" instead of his nom d'hotel 
 "Mason." 
 
 "I have been comfortable, thank you," he answered 
 coldly, and was on the point of moving away, reflecting 
 that this must be his last visit to an extremely convenient 
 establishment, and for the first time in his life realising 
 that the fact of being a celebrity had its drawbacks. 
 
 But the manager persisted: 
 
 "Really, sir, I trust you will permit me to congratulate 
 you on the speech you made in the breach of promise 
 case the other day. That was what won me over, that 
 and the fact that you are such a good client. All the 
 other jurymen wanted to return a verdict with thumping 
 damages for the plaintiff, but your speech won my sym- 
 pathy, sir and you have always been so complimentary 
 about the hotel that I well stood out." 
 
 "Yes, yes," Richard replied, "and the jury disagreed. 
 I remember." 
 
 "I was the only juryman who disagreed, sir," answered 
 the manager. "But you are such a good client."
 
 A GREAT TRIUMPH 241 
 
 "Thank you," said Richard stiffly, "I have been very 
 comfortable," 
 
 As he passed out into the street he reflected, "It's 
 astonishing that in a country where they prohibit gambling 
 they should permit justice!" 
 
 All that day and the greater part of Tuesday he spent 
 over the Sudbury-on-Tritham Electric Tramway Bill. 
 
 Before the committee, to the intense surprise of the 
 other counsel engaged in the case, he showed an intimate 
 knowledge of Parliamentary procedure. The report 
 that a new-comer of extraordinary ability had risen spread 
 with marvellous rapidity. From the various committee 
 rooms came Parliamentary agents, solicitors, and quasi- 
 jealous juniors. The thing in itself was almost a miracle. 
 Hitherto no barrister had come straight, as it 'were, from 
 the Old Bailey, fully equipped to his finger-tips with a 
 knowledge of Parliamentary procedure. It was noted 
 that Lashbridge, a difficult and somewhat haughty chair- 
 man of committees, treated him almost with deference. 
 He spoke to him as though he felt for him that respect 
 which was only due to men like Gregg or Jack Bishop, 
 the leader of the Parliamentary Bar. 
 
 Towards the end of Tuesday afternoon Lashbridge 
 " cleared the room " whilst he and his colleagues considered 
 their decision. 
 
 Outside in the corridor, Richard walked up and down 
 with John. Every now and then the clerk was approached 
 by various people strangers to his master. To them 
 he talked with his chest expanded, his fingers in his arm- 
 holes, after the manner of one whose privilege it was to 
 confer favours. 
 
 Not all at once did he give affirmative answers to the 
 people anxious to secure the services of Richard. He had 
 value to dispose of, and he would only dispose of it to
 
 242 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 the highest bidder. His hat was cocked on one side, 
 and he rather suggested an auctioneer presiding over 
 the sale of a priceless and unique article of vertu. 
 
 At one of these moments it was that Lord Robert 
 Stackville approached Richard. The wan, intellectual 
 face of the barrister lighted with a smile. 
 
 "I congratulate you, Meyville, most heartily. You 
 have done exceedingly well. I sincerely hope that you 
 will be one of us now." 
 
 "It's very kind of you to say that," Richard answered. 
 "I think I'm beginning to know the ropes now." 
 
 "But you'll never get this Bill through," said Lord 
 Robert. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "For one reason, my dear sir, tramways are things of 
 the past. Any money that is now invested in tramways 
 must be lost. Besides, Lashbridge is the worst possible 
 man for your purpose." 
 
 "Why?" asked Richard, with quick, questioning eyes. 
 
 "Simply because he is chairman of the Great Southern 
 Railway. No chairman of a railway can look with favour 
 on tramways. But, mind you, you had an absolutely 
 hopeless case from the beginning." 
 
 " It looked infernally hopeless at first," laughed Rich- 
 ard. 
 
 "It was hopeless, and it is now," explained Lord 
 Robert. "But don't be in any way depressed by a first 
 failure especially the failure of an enterprise that was 
 foredoomed. Of course, if you had managed to prove 
 your preamble single-handed, as you were your triumph 
 would have been colossal." 
 
 At that moment the doer of the committee room opened 
 and the counsel streamed in, followed by a huge group 
 of people more or less interested in the Bill.
 
 A GREAT TRIUMPH 213 
 
 Richard and the various barristers engaged in the case 
 sat down to listen for the decision. 
 
 "We find the preamble proved," stated Lashbridge 
 briefly. 
 
 There was a gasp of amazement throughout the 
 room. 
 
 Richard could scarcely believe his ears. 
 
 "And that's the man I mistrusted! Still, he has 
 done too much!" he said to himself. 
 
 There was a hectic flush on either cheek as, accom- 
 panied by the jubilant John carrying his red bag, he 
 strode along the corridor. 
 
 When he had disrobed, he spoke for a few moments 
 to the clerk in the lobby. 
 
 John's face shone with delight. 
 
 "This is the best day's work we have ever done, sir. 
 I doubt whether any man at the Parliamentary Bar has 
 ever had such a success. They are all talking about it. 
 They can't say enough about it. I'll tell you a very good 
 sign, sir. Two or three men have told me that they 
 know of good sets of chambers in Westminster cheap 
 comparatively." 
 
 This was news with a vengeance! So he was to set up 
 a branch establishment, was he? 
 
 "Within the next week, sir, we shall be turning away 
 work the best sort of work." 
 
 Then his enthusiasm mastered him. 
 
 "I do sincerely hope, sir, that I shall always know 
 where you are when you are not at Brighton." 
 
 Richard made no reply. The two jumped into a cab 
 and sped to the Temple, where three consultations had 
 been arranged. 
 
 By six o'clock Richard had finished work and set out 
 on his walk homeward.
 
 244 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Very varying had been his frame of mind during these 
 homeward walks. 
 
 He remembered that he had passed the Post Office in 
 the Strand, feeling dejected, almost hopeless of his future. 
 He had walked past the Cecil, heated with the reminis- 
 cence of some trivial triumph. How trivial all these 
 triumphs seemed now! What was his success in the 
 Yoghi and Priscilla? The most highly paid services are 
 those which relate to large financial interests. He re- 
 membered that he had struggled perhaps for five hours, 
 in the Whitechapel County Court five hours, relieved 
 only by the genuine wit of the presiding judge for a 
 matter involving the sum of 5. Now he would struggle, 
 with less mental wear and tear, in cases in which thousands, 
 perhaps millions, were at stake, and he would be paid 
 proportionately. The very visage of London alters before 
 the successful man. Where previously he had seen 
 gloomy, soulless buildings in the height of summer, now, 
 in the middle of November, the street lamps gave him a 
 cheery welcome, the glittering shops smiled at him. 
 
 Walking along Piccadilly, he was suddenly seized 
 with the idea that he wanted a new hat. In the days of 
 his impecuniosity he had often been in sore straits for 
 clothes. But so good was his figure that even the clothing 
 so much despised by the servants at Lashbridge, when 
 lying in his portmanteau, had looked well cut on him. 
 For his hats he had never paid more than fifteen shillings. 
 Still, he had always selected hats that had something 
 about them that was not suggestive of the City clerk. 
 A young man with a clear-cut, intellectual face does not 
 look, perhaps, the worse for wearing a silk hat that is not 
 as effulgent as a stockbroker's. 
 
 He went into Benham and Heath's. 
 
 At the end of the shop he saw Billy Brinstable, talking
 
 A GREAT TRIUMPH 245 
 
 loudly to a couple of friends. The friends were over- 
 dressed persons with predatory noses like eagles, shining 
 hats, and glistening black hair. They belonged to that 
 race, which, in our day, shows such extraordinary aptitude 
 for finance, but they were in no respect amiable repre- 
 sentatives of that race. 
 
 Richard placed his hat on the counter. 
 
 The shopman, who resembled in appearance a very 
 eminent dramatist, examined it with hostile care. The 
 brim was limp to the touch, the lining was coloured like 
 a meerschaum pipe. 
 
 While the man went in quest of a new one, Richard's 
 eyes scanned the rows upon rows of white hat-boxes upon 
 which were printed the most distinguished names in the 
 kingdom. Peers, politicians, authors, financiers Lord 
 Lashbridge and Montague Cliftonville among them. 
 
 "I wonder," he thought to himself, "whether Messrs. 
 Benham and Heath will ever think it wise to advertise 
 my custom in this manner?" 
 
 Suddenly Billy sighted him, and approached him with 
 vast enthusiasm. 
 
 The solicitor had grown fatter, redder, and more puffy 
 about the eyes, more expansive in his movements since 
 his marriage. 
 
 "My dear Dick," he cried, seizing his right hand 
 between two chamois leather gloves, "my dear Dick, 
 how are you, old horse? Here, Maurice! here, Litchen- 
 baum! I want to introduce you to my brother-in-law. 
 Here, you chaps, this is Mr. Richard Meyville, the emi- 
 nent barrister. Mr. Albert Maurice, Mr. Z. Litchen- 
 baum what the dickens does Z. stand for, Litchenbaum ? " 
 
 "Pleased to meet you," said Mr. Albert Maurice. 
 
 "Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Mr. 
 Litchenbaum.
 
 246 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Wonderful how times do change!" said Billy. "You 
 wouldn't believe it, but when I became engaged to his 
 sister only at the beginning of last year he was almost 
 a briefless barrister. And now look at him! Turning 
 work away!" 
 
 Billy spoke proudly, as though the fact that he had 
 married Richard's sister had been the primary cause 
 of the barrister's success. 
 
 A cynical but uncontrollable smile played about 
 Richard's mouth. 
 
 "Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Billy. "I'm 
 giving a little dinner at the Carlton to-night. You'll 
 dine with us?" 
 
 "Do," urged Mr. Albert Maurice. 
 
 "There is no one with whom I should be more pleased 
 to have a little chat than you," pressed Mr. Z. Litchen- 
 baum. 
 
 "Ethel will be delighted to see you," said Billy. "These 
 days you seem too busy to honour Billy's humble roof." 
 
 Richard was aghast at the idea of Ethel being seen 
 in the company of these apparently shady if not actually 
 shady financiers. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," he answered, "but I'm dining at 
 home to-night." 
 
 "What!" cried Billy, "in that stuffy little place in 
 Gloucester Terrace!" 
 
 "I'm dining with my mother," Richard replied. 
 
 The tone of reproach irritated Billy. 
 
 "Would you believe it?" he exclaimed. "Dick here 
 is making thousands, and he still lives in Bayswater." 
 
 "I don't think," said Richard, looking coldly at Billy, 
 "that my place of residence has anything to do with your 
 friends." Then, in a lower voice, "I am very anxious to 
 see Ethel. I have not seen her for some time. I
 
 A GREAT TRIUMPH 247 
 
 shall come and see her in a day or two. Good-night." 
 
 Then he turned away and tried on his hat. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said, "that will do. Send it on." And 
 he gave his name. 
 
 The shopman stared at him for an instant. 
 
 "That being the case, sir, I don't think you're choosing 
 quite the right sort of hat. I think that a gentleman 
 like you ought to have a more distinguished hat. There's 
 a great deal in the brim of a hat. We make for your 
 brother, Mr. Cliftonville." 
 
 "Oh, do you?" commented Richard. "Yes, I see 
 you do. I always imagined that he had his hats designed 
 by an architect, not a mere hatter. I don't consider 
 that a hat should be a sort of public monument." 
 
 "No, sir. But without being precisely theatrical, 
 you should have what I might style a more eminent 
 headgear. I've got the very thing, sir; just a slight 
 difference in the width of the brim." 
 
 Richard knew that the man was right 
 
 "Bring it here." 
 
 He tried it on. He looked in the glass. The improve- 
 ment was enormous. 
 
 The hat to the eminent man is what the halo is to 
 the saint. The halo does not add to the sanctity of the 
 saint. But each explains to the passers-by in what 
 company they have the good fortune to be. 
 
 " I think, perhaps, I had better make you another one, 
 sir, and I will keep it here in one of those boxes, and when 
 you are passing you can change it." 
 
 A smile of amused satisfaction stole over his face. So 
 his hat was worthy of a place in the hierarchy of hats! 
 
 " If I were you, I don't think I should have this other 
 hat of yours" and he toyed with the limp brim "sent 
 home, sir."
 
 248 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," answered Richard. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir," he said with a smile, "but I never 
 thought that you and I if I may say so, sir would meet 
 on what I might call friendly terms." 
 
 Richard stared at the man. 
 
 "And why not, pray? I don't understand." 
 
 "Why, sir, after the way you turned me inside out 
 after the omnibus accident which I happened to witness 
 from this door. At first I didn't recognise you without 
 your wig. After all, sir, it really was too bad. I couldn't 
 help witnessing the accident. That's a thing that might 
 happen to anybody, but you made me appear the most 
 terrible liar you did, indeed, sir; and I'm not sure 
 speaking at this distance of time that you didn't make 
 me lie something horrible. It was very unpleasant for 
 me to sit in the court with my wife who had come for 
 a day's outing and hear you speak of me as the man 
 'Willis.'" 
 
 Richard recollected the incident, and apologised with 
 a smile. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Mr. Willis. But do you know that 
 telling the truth is almost a lost art in this country?" 
 
 "Bless you, sir," answered the other. "It's absolutely 
 impossible in the witness-box." 
 
 "There's a great deal of truth in that," reflected Richard, 
 as he left the shop. "It's as hard to tell the truth in the 
 Temple of Justice as it is to be amused in a theatre."
 
 CHAPTER XXin 
 
 CONCERNING THE LOYALTY OF LADY MEYVILLE 
 
 He walked rapidly along Piccadilly, and as he turned 
 from Berkeley Street into Berkeley Square the fog had 
 thickened. He took a strange pleasure in the mystic 
 effect which it produced. In each of these houses in 
 which only an occasional light gleamed were mysteries of 
 love and sin and passion and desire; secrets only to be 
 revealed by the process of the law. Each house in 
 Berkeley Square possesses a characteristic of its own. 
 Here was the house of a politician, there of an author, 
 there of an actor, there of a philanthropic peer. In this 
 square there is probably a more varied assortment of 
 dwellers than in any other in London. The frontages of 
 each bear even less resemblance to their neighbours than 
 do the occupants themselves. But, suddenly, by the 
 process of the law, all the secrets of the occupants may 
 be revealed. 
 
 As he passed along the north side it gave him pleasure 
 to reflect that some day from any of these houses a man 
 or woman would lay bare to him a secret; that he 
 would be a confessional as well, perhaps, as an avenging 
 sword or a bulwark of defence in time of trouble. 
 
 The dramatic side of his profession fascinated him. 
 
 Were it not for John and his bargain with him he 
 would certainly have preferred to specialise in the Divorce 
 Court and in causes celebres, whether in the King's 
 Bench or in the Central Criminal Court.
 
 250 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 He walked along Green Street and looked up at Mr. 
 Ainslie's windows. 
 
 There were lights in the drawing-room. 
 
 He took out his watch. It was half -past seven; she 
 hadn't gone up to dress. 
 
 For an instant he wavered. But an irresistible desire 
 to see her seized him. He was warm with the glow of 
 his triumph, and the natural completement of a man's 
 success is appreciation from the lips and eyes of the woman 
 he loves. 
 
 "Why wasn't she his wife?" he thought. How acute 
 would have been the joy if it had been possible for him, 
 with his own latchkey, to open that door to find her 
 eagerly waiting for him. To dictate to her definitely, 
 precisely, and suddenly as to which dress she was to 
 wear, to whirl her off to a tete-a-tete dinner, and to walk 
 proudly into a theatre in her company would be the joy 
 of joys. 
 
 The great charm of married life, he thought, lay in its 
 surprises. To say at a moment's notice, "We're going 
 to dine out, and we're going to the theatre, and we're 
 going to have a little supper after," or "Have your things 
 packed up, darling, and we'll go to Brighton or Paris 
 by the next train." As things were now, every pleas- 
 ure had to be calculated and arranged for in advance. 
 
 He would go in. 
 
 He had no definite object before him. For a moment 
 it struck him that they might dine together somewhere 
 quietly and go to a music-hall. Still he hated music-halls. 
 Gwendolen hated music-halls. In them was only to be 
 found tedium and disappointment. The atmosphere, 
 truly, was gay, but the dullard and the dolt alone appar- 
 ently devoted their attention to the amusement of the 
 English public.
 
 LOYALTY OF LADY MEYVILLE 251 
 
 Also, his mother was expecting him. 
 
 Yet he would love to see Gwendolen, if only for a 
 minute. 
 
 He rang. 
 
 Younghusband showed him up to the drawing-room. 
 
 Gwendolen was seated by the fire, the glow shining 
 on her face, and warming the pink silk of her gown. 
 
 On a sofa sat Lashbridge. 
 
 A perceptible cloud passed over Richard's face. "What 
 the dickens was Lashbridge doing here at this hour?" 
 
 Gwendolen, with a cry of pleasure, rose. 
 
 So genuine was the cry that Richard felt that it must 
 be intensely galling to Lashbridge. It sounded as music 
 in his own ears. 
 
 Instantly she took him by both hands. 
 
 "My dear Dick, Lash has just been telling me of your 
 triumph. He says you're the most wonderful man." 
 
 As she held his hands her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm 
 and love. 
 
 Lashbridge, on the sofa, gazed at the two with a semi- 
 smile. He patted his long, lean, white fingers together 
 rapidly. Beyond that there was no symptom of the pain 
 caused to him by Gwendolen's exhibition of proud love. 
 But, evidently, he felt the situation intolerable. He saw 
 himself out of the picture, and, for him, the sight of the 
 picture was by no means pleasing. 
 
 Rising from the sofa, he said slowly: 
 
 "My dear Richard, I do congratulate you most heartily. 
 At one time I was afraid. I really was quite nervous. 
 I almost thought that you might break down. But I 
 helped you as I think you will admit as much as I 
 could." 
 
 "Of course I admit it," answered Richard, with as 
 much enthusiasm as he could muster. "If you had
 
 252 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 done anything to embarrass me further well, I don't 
 know what would have happened." 
 
 Lashbridge smiled. 
 
 " I'm very pleased if my may I say tact ? has helped 
 you in taking a step a somewhat important step in 
 what I am sure will be an eminent career." 
 
 His manner was charming. 
 
 The only thing that made Richard doubt his absolute 
 sincerity was the deliberate pomposity of the words. 
 Had he been opening a bazaar, his language could not 
 have been more artificial, more unlike the real man when 
 he spoke real words. The genuine assistance that he 
 had given him before the committee made this insin- 
 cerity the more mysterious. 
 
 Then Gwen also thanked him. Her tone conveyed 
 both to Lashbridge and to Richard her opinion that the 
 favour shown to her lover had been inspired by her. But, 
 in her words, there was no inkling of such a view. 
 
 Lashbridge took his leave. 
 
 "How long has he been here?" asked Richard before 
 he kissed her. 
 
 "Three-quarters of an hour." 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "My dear, dear Richard," she protested. 
 
 "No, no, of course I don't suspect anything. But 
 what do the servants think?" 
 
 "Servants don't think. They jump at wrong conclu- 
 sions by a natural instinct." 
 
 "That man, your butler, Younghusband, thinks you 
 are making a fool of me. I saw it in his eyes." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "If he knows anything, he knows better. Now, I 
 want to be kissed, please. When you are happy you 
 ought to be nice. Be nice, won't you, if only for your
 
 LOYALTY OF LADY MEYVILLE 253 
 
 sake? You see, I am not selfish. Aren't you sorry for 
 my lips? They have been neglected for quite three 
 days. Aren't they pale and hungry-looking?" 
 
 He drew her tightly towards him, kissing her 
 with long, warm kisses. Her breast heaved against 
 his chest. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, what wonderful power you have over 
 me!" 
 
 There was a note of fierceness in her voice. Futile 
 fierceness. But she gave vent to the grievance of her 
 life. 
 
 "This can't go on. No one who loves as I love can 
 stand it. There are days when I don't see you. I must 
 see you every day. Even if I only see you I tell you 
 what you must do," then she broke off. "Oh, if only 
 you were in any other profession we could run away." 
 
 "My darling, there is nothing I should like more than 
 to run away with you. But the only profession that I 
 could belong to in which I should not be ruined by that 
 process would be that of a capitalist or an actor." 
 
 "Yes, I know," she answered, her breath coming 
 quickly. "But the fact remains that we are wasting 
 years and years. Every day I don't see you is a year 
 wasted. How many years do you suppose I've got to 
 love? Think of it. I am over thirty!" 
 
 "My dear, that is young." 
 
 "For a woman," she answered, "but not for " 
 
 "Not for what?" he asked. 
 
 "Can't you guess?" 
 
 She dropped her head and brushed his lips with her 
 hair. 
 
 " Can't you guess ? " she repeated. " A mother. We're 
 wasting a lot of precious time. I'd give anything if it 
 could happen now."
 
 254 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 He lifted up her head and held her cheeks between 
 his hands. Their eyes were lost in each other's. 
 
 "Do you really mean that?" he asked eagerly. 
 
 "I mean it, oh, I mean it, "she whispered, "and think 
 
 of the time that has been wasted! Think of It's 
 
 cruel, too cruel. Look at the wicked, wicked waste. 
 The great glory of a woman is to be a mother. Oh, I'm 
 not proud, but I think that a son of yours and mine 
 would be a wonderful son. He would have your genius, 
 yes, and your looks. He would be exactly like you. 
 He would be just as clever as you. And he would be just 
 as great as you. For you are going to be great, Richard." 
 Then, with a little pout, she said pleadingly: "But I 
 should like to have him just something of me, just some 
 little thing to remind you that he really was our son 
 yours and mine. Still, I don't know that anything I 
 could give him wouldn't be a sort of defect." 
 
 "Good God, Gwen!" he cried, as he threw his arms 
 around her. "It's a foolish confession to make, but I 
 never worship you so much as when you're flattering me." 
 
 He could tell that she was laughing when she answered : 
 
 "But, you know, the funny thing is, Richard, that I 
 firmly believe in all this flattery." 
 
 "I tell you what," he said, "the child is not to be a 
 boy at all/' 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," she protested, "the first child of 
 people who are really and truly in love is always a boy. 
 If it were a girl I should feel that you didn't really love me." 
 
 "It has got to be a girl, and it is to be all beautiful 
 like you. You are so beautiful. I worship your beauty. 
 You are the only woman in the world." 
 
 "If that is so," she smiled with a tender smile of satis- 
 faction, "you'll always be faithful. That's a very good 
 sign, but this is what I was going to tell you. I have
 
 LOYALTY OF LADY MEYVILLE 255 
 
 made it clear, haven't I, that I'm not going to stand this 
 separation any longer ? You're making a lot of money, 
 and you could take a really good flat. You've got to 
 take a flat somewhere near here in Mount Street, or, 
 perhaps, Hay Hill, and you've got to have a manservant 
 who is devoted to you. You're plways liked by servants 
 and children and dogs. That's a certificate of character, 
 if you like. Yes, you will have no difficulty in getting a 
 devoted, confidential manservant, and then I shall be 
 able to see you whenever I like, and as long as I like." 
 
 His brows drew together in a slight frown. 
 
 "I've been thinking of taking a flat but " 
 
 "But," she interposed, "you can afford it now." 
 
 "I can afford a first-class flat," he answered; "but 
 I shall have to take my mother to live with me." 
 
 She stood erect, an angry gleam in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, this is too muoh! You can't love me! More 
 obstacles! Isn't your mother perfectly happy in Glou- 
 cester Terrace? You've refurnished it for her." 
 
 "At her age I can't leave her alone." 
 
 "Why can't she go and live with your sister? Why 
 can't she go and live with Montague?" flashed Gwen. 
 "You're the scapegoat of the family. You have to do all 
 the unpleasant work. What does Ethel do for her? 
 The proper place for a mother to live is with her daughter." 
 
 "The natural degeneration of a mother is into a mother- 
 in-law," he answered. "I don't think Billy Brinstable 
 would care for that arrangement. But you don't seem 
 to understand that I am fond of my mother." 
 
 "And I am your mistress," she claimed. 
 
 "Of course, dear," he answered soothingly. "You 
 know nothing in the world would delight me more than 
 to have a flat that would be ours. But my mother has 
 had a hard time of it. She has had more trials and
 
 256 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 sorrows than you know of. And she is fond of me." 
 
 "Fond of you?" asked Gwen, and there was a jeering 
 note in her voice. "You know that she prefers her 
 mummer son. Everybody knows that. Everybody knows 
 that she is proud of Ethel having a house in Mayfair, 
 and you know she goes about saying what a great grief 
 our liaison is." 
 
 "Stop!" ordered Richard. "It isn't possible. Don't 
 say such things." 
 
 Gwendolen turned away to the looking-glass. With 
 an affectation of carelessness, she performed an un- 
 necessary operation on her hair. 
 
 "My dear boy, it's perfectly true. Absolutely and 
 completely true." 
 
 "It is not possible," said Richard; "it is not possible. 
 No mother would do a thing of that sort. Who told you 
 that she knows anything about us?" 
 
 "My dear Richard, Bayswater is not quite Hammer- 
 smith. They do hear of things there. Remember, I 
 am a Bayswater girl myself. I have recovered from it." 
 
 This was really a blow to the heart for Richard. He 
 had always done his best for his mother. He had always 
 been devoted to her. Not only did he love her as a son, 
 but he liked her as a friend. And to hear that she was 
 indiscreet in her motherhood, disloyal in her friendship if 
 Gwendolen was right! But Gwendolen was always 
 right. She jumped at no conclusions. She could dis- 
 criminate between facts and tittle-tattle. Gravely he 
 looked at her: 
 
 "Gwen, I'm really sorry that you told me this." 
 
 "I am your mistress," she answered. "You and I 
 are in partnership; it is the only partnership for you and 
 me. I have no wish to make trouble between you and 
 your mother. I only fight for my own hand, and
 
 LOYALTY OF LADY MEYVILLE 257 
 
 my hand is yours. And I am going to fight for you." 
 
 Her eyes were flashing and her cheeks were pale. 
 
 "Remember this, Richard, that I put you on one 
 side and the rest of the world on the other. Nothing 
 counts, nothing matters to me but you. I'm going to 
 keep you against anything or anybody." 
 
 Was it not well to be loved thus? 
 
 But his mother! He felt a sickening sensation of 
 foreboding in his heart. 
 
 He knew that when Fortune comes to a man, bearing 
 lavish gifts in one hand, she carries a drawn sword in 
 the other.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE GREAT SORROW AND THE TOPIC 
 
 By the clock at the Marble Arch he saw that it was well 
 after eight. 
 
 Instantly he jumped into a hansom and drove to 
 Gloucester Terrace. 
 
 For the first time in his life he entered his home with 
 an uneasy feeling of suspicion. He was conscious that 
 there was a certain coldness in the kiss he pressed to his 
 mother's forehead. With an air of resignation that, in 
 his present state of mind, he considered unnecessary, she 
 said : 
 
 "You're getting later and later for dinner, Richard. 
 I suppose before long I shall never see you at all." 
 
 During dinner he felt in no mood to describe to her 
 the success of the afternoon, to descant, as a day or two 
 before he would have loved to do, on the prospects that 
 the future held. Instead of this, he talked on trivial 
 matters, and regarded her critically, carefully, weighing 
 the words she spoke. 
 
 It seemed to him that she had aged. There was a 
 lack of repose about her, a certain nervous, bird-like 
 movement of the head. 
 
 "I saw Billy this afternoon," he said. "He asked 
 me to dine with him to-night. I must say he had two 
 very peculiar friends with him." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "William's friends are not 
 very distinguished. It seems a pity that nowadays 
 people have to mix up business with pleasure. In the
 
 THE GREAT SORROW AND THE TOPIC 259 
 
 old days business men used only to see their business 
 friends in the City. Now there is no such thing as home 
 life." 
 
 "I myself," replied Richard, "don't see why a business 
 friend shouldn't be a personal friend. But the two 
 men I saw Billy with to-day are entirely undesirable in 
 either capacity. They are ordinary City sharks. Also 
 they are Jews. In order to do business successfully 
 even with honest Jews one has to be a very brilliant 
 man. To do business successfully with dishonest Jews 
 one has to be a dishonest Jew." 
 
 "My heart bleeds for Ethel," said his mother. "You 
 know how refined she was, and is, of course. I can't think 
 that she can be happy in her surroundings. Still, I had 
 always hoped that my only daughter would live in May- 
 fair. After all, it is something to have a house in May- 
 fair." 
 
 Richard shot a keen glance at her. It seemed to him 
 so lamentably little to have a house in Mayfair, if the 
 home were unhappy; the geographical fact appeared 
 scarcely worth mentioning. His mother's remark struck 
 him as foolish. But, after all, she was an old woman. 
 After a certain period in life the mind, as well as the 
 body, deteriorates. After a certain period the wisdom 
 of old age is very much akin to the inexperience of 
 youth. 
 
 "Do you know anything about William's business? 
 how he is getting on ?" 
 
 He had heard sinister rumours. But he had no wish 
 to cause her anxiety. 
 
 "He never sends me any briefs," was his answer. 
 
 "I'm afraid, Richard, you only think about yourself." 
 
 He opened wide eyes of astonishment. 
 
 "I suppose if William considered you were the best
 
 260 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 man to employ for his sort of work, he would employ 
 you, wouldn't he?" 
 
 "There are two opinions," he replied, "about every- 
 thing even about barristers." 
 
 He was genuinely surprised at the suggestion of selfish- 
 ness. 
 
 "I think you ought, if only for your sister's sake, 
 to find out something more definite about William. But 
 I suppose you are too engrossed in your own affairs." 
 
 A thrill of pain shot to his heart. By the light of 
 Gwendolen's statement he saw through a long vista of 
 conversations that he had held with his mother. So 
 confident had he been of his love for her that it had never 
 occurred to him that she did not regard him with anything 
 but the warmest affection. True, he had always known 
 that Montague was her favourite son. "How?" he 
 asked himself, " could he, a barrister, a man with an 
 alert .brain, have been blind all this time?" And then 
 he recollected the fact that barristers almost automatically 
 shake off in private life those arts of observation and 
 deduction which they so strenuously exercise in their 
 hours of labour. The expression "only daughter" 
 which she had just used would, a day or two before, 
 have seemed to him insignificant, but, with the suspicion 
 that he now felt, it struck him as a slur upon himself. 
 
 Then she turned the conversation to Montague. How 
 cruel the critics were to him! How unthinking the 
 attitude of the public! Montague was the greatest 
 actor there had ever been, and yet the critics found absurd 
 faults with him. Why had he not been knighted ? Why 
 did the public refuse to patronise certain plays in which 
 he acted with such marvellous skill ? 
 
 The answer to these questions Richard knew; but 
 he didn't think it prudent to give them.
 
 THE GREAT SORROW AND THE TOPIC 261 
 
 "I should dearly love to see my eldest son knighted," 
 she concluded. 
 
 There was a certain touch of scorn about his lips as he 
 asked: 
 
 "Would it annoy you very much if your second son 
 were knighted?" 
 
 To his surprise she treated the question as a joke. 
 
 "There's not much chance of that," she laughed. 
 
 "Why, I don't know," he replied quite gravely, "At- 
 torney-Generals are knighted: Solicitor-Generals are 
 knighted: Judges are compelled to be knighted." 
 
 "Surely, Richard, you don't imagine for one moment 
 that you can ever be made a judge?" 
 
 "One's prophecies about oneself are always ridicu- 
 lous except to oneself, and perhaps to one's mother," 
 and he could not forbear to add, " and to the woman one 
 loves." 
 
 Her lips shut tight as she answered : 
 
 "Ah, that's it." She shrugged her shoulders. "That's 
 the obstacle. I was talking to Mrs. Bolitho, and you 
 know that her husband is a solicitor. Well, I was telling 
 her what a great grief it was to me." 
 
 There was a cold look in his eyes as he asked slowly: 
 
 "What was a great grief to you ?" 
 
 "Why, about you and Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 "Good God!" he exclaimed under his breath, "then 
 it is true." 
 
 "What did you say?" she asked. 
 
 "I said nothing, nothing. I was only thinking." 
 
 "And," she continued, "Mrs. Bolitho entirely agreed 
 with me. She said what a pity it was that you were quite 
 throwing yourself away. That you could never reach a 
 really good position, that her husband would like to give 
 you work, but that he could never trust a man who was
 
 262 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 tied to the apron-strings of that sort of woman." 
 
 Without looking at her he answered slowly, grimly: 
 
 "Mrs. Ainslie does not wear aprons. Mrs. Ainslie is 
 
 not 'that sort of woman.' I know the expression means 
 
 an insult, and that's all I know about it." 
 
 "That's neither here nor there," replied his mother. 
 "But everybody says the same thing about you and Mrs. 
 Ainslie." 
 
 "Everybody that you talk to about it?" 
 "Yes, and it's not fair to Montague. I shouldn't 
 be at all surprised if one of the reasons why he hasn't 
 got his knighthood is owing to your behaviour." 
 
 Good heavens! His brain reeled. He had heard 
 many conversations among the Bays water matrons. He 
 knew the extremely parochial views with which they 
 looked on the life of their suburb; how they judged the 
 world from the bargain-counter at Whiteley's. It might 
 well be that his mother's old age, assisted by the stulti- 
 fying process of her friends' companionship, was weaken- 
 ing her intellect. He knew that in Bayswater sub-society 
 matrons who had not the good fortune to be suffering 
 from obscure bodily ailments would actually bring into 
 the conversational forum the delinquencies of their own 
 sons. What his mother's companions thought of him 
 mattered not one tittle. But it seemed extraordinary to 
 him that she should show such appalling mental, and, 
 indeed, moral deterioration. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "I am going to take a flat some- 
 where in Mayfair. I can easily afford it now; and I 
 want you to come and live with me. I am making pro- 
 gress, and it would be much more convenient for me to 
 live in a more central position. Besides, it would effect 
 a saving of the money I allow you."
 
 THE GREAT SORROW AND THE TOPIC 263 
 
 She pursed up her lips. Her cheeks flushed as though 
 they had received a blow. 
 
 "No, thank you," she answered. "I quite under- 
 stand what that means. Mrs. Ainslie lives in Mayfair." 
 
 His tolerance was at an end. 
 
 "That will do," he answered. 
 
 He rose from the table and walked to the door. 
 
 With his hand on the knob he turned to her. 
 
 "I am now going to telephone to Mrs. Ainslie. If 
 she is in, I'm going to Green Street." 
 
 She glared indignantly at him. 
 
 "Richard, you are the great sorrow of my life." 
 
 "No," he answered, "lam your great topic of conver- 
 sation." 
 
 Then he closed the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE POSITION OF BILLY 
 
 DURING the rest of that term Richard prospered 
 amazingly. 
 
 Even John was more than satisfied. He could not, 
 however, regard Mrs. Ainslie as other than a disturbing 
 possibility. Nothing, however, had occurred to increase 
 his deep-seated disapproval of the liaison. 
 
 Richard had taken a flat in Hay Hill, the decoration 
 of which he had left entirely to Gwendolen, much to her 
 delight. Though he had no particular appreciation of 
 beautiful things, he had an instinctive dislike for the ugly, 
 a fact which gave her no slight pleasure. She understood 
 that his whole artistic appreciation was centred on her. 
 In his eyes she was the concentration of beauty. 
 
 Until the flat had been completely decorated and 
 furnished, he had not set a foot in it, and, on its comple- 
 tion, she had shown it to him with pride. 
 
 He had pronounced it "all right." This faint praise, 
 after all the trouble she had taken, might have been 
 galling, but for her complete understanding of his tem- 
 perament. 
 
 "If you like it," he added, "if it's good enough for 
 you to come here, that's all I want. It is more, far 
 more than I deserve." 
 
 Now that he was in possession of the flat there was no 
 longer any necessity for mysterious visits to "Brighton" 
 or elsewhere. At any moment John could communicate 
 with him by telephone.
 
 THE POSITION OF BILLY 265 
 
 Thus the clerk, while heartily disapproving of the 
 whole affair, was more or less lulled into acquiescence. 
 
 After the unfortunate episode with his mother Richard 
 saw little of her, and in a measure this estrangement 
 influenced his relations with his sister. He felt that his 
 family did not appreciate him, that they did not require 
 him. He had done his best for his mother, and he had 
 done his best for Ethel. And there was an end to the 
 matter. In addition, there lurked in his mind a sinister 
 foreboding with regard to his sister. Of whatever dis- 
 aster that foreboding might be the precursor, he knew 
 that he would be powerless to prevent it. Billy must 
 remain the master of the situation. Billy had decided 
 upon what lines he should conduct his business. If the 
 business prospered, so much the better. If the business 
 failed, so much the worse. 
 
 Richard, indeed, had little faith in the methods of his 
 brother-in-law; but he, himself, was powerless to interfere. 
 At times disquieting rumours reached him. He heard 
 that Billy was mixed up in transactions which, if not 
 exactly shady, could scarcely be called highly repu- 
 table. . 
 
 On the rare occasions when he saw Ethel he gave her 
 every opportunity of telling him anything that was on her 
 mind. But she never complained either of her husband 
 or her husband's friends. Therefore, almost against his 
 better judgment, he was persuaded into believing that 
 all was well, but well in a way with which he had no 
 sympathy. 
 
 At Christmas-time Gwen and he and Wilfred went 
 to Monte Carlo, in spite of the protests of the unfortunate 
 husband. 
 
 "Absolutely absurd," he said j>ver and over again, 
 "to go to Monte Carlo at this time of the year! I can't
 
 266 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 possibly come back until May. I know perfectly well 
 that when my system has got accustomed to the climate 
 of the South, if I return either in February, March or 
 April, I shall probably catch bronchitis and die. It is 
 sheer foolhardiness for me to go," and so forth and so on. 
 
 Gwendolen, however, over-persuaded him. 
 
 "You can stay out there, my dear, as long as you like. 
 But, of course, Richard must be back for the opening of 
 the Courts in January." 
 
 They spent a delightful time at the Hotel de Paris. 
 But on the ninth of January Richard had to return. 
 
 Two days before his departure the three of them were 
 sitting at tea in the Gallery in front of Giro's. Gwendolen 
 and Richard seemed depressed, Wilfred peevish and 
 irritable. Suddenly he snapped out at his wife. 
 
 "Why don't you go home with Richard?" 
 
 Her eyes stared blankly at him. "Why don't I go 
 home with Richard?" 
 
 Was he speaking sarcasm or sense ? she wondered. 
 
 "Why," she added, "because I am staying here with 
 you." 
 
 He crossed his legs petulantly, kicking at a chair. 
 
 "I can't stand being alone with you, and you know it. 
 You always rub me the wrong way when we're alone 
 together." 
 
 "My dear Wilfred." 
 
 His tongue clicked on the roof of his mouth. 
 
 "Oh, you do you know you do. I'm not well enough 
 to be annoyed. I ought never to be irritated. There's 
 nothing worse for me than to be irritated." 
 
 It was obvious to her that he really wished her to go 
 back to London. 
 
 Curious though it was, it seemed too good to be true. 
 
 Then Wilfred turned as though to attack Richard :
 
 THE POSITION OF BILLY 267 
 
 "I suppose it would be asking too much of you to look 
 after her on the way back? Two hundred trunks and 
 a maid worse than useless." 
 
 Richard, overjoyed, concealed his delight. 
 
 "My dear Wilfred 
 
 Instantly Wilfred interrupted: 
 
 "There you are!" he said to Gwendolen. "Just as 
 I told you. He won't be bothered with you. No one 
 will be bothered with you." 
 
 "Wilfred, I don't know what's the matter with you." 
 
 "Everything is the matter with me. No one sym- 
 pathises with me." 
 
 "But," interjected Richard, "I was on the point of 
 saying that I should be only too pleased to look after 
 your wife. Anything that I can do for your wife will 
 be a great pleasure to me." 
 
 "You only say that out of politeness." 
 
 "My dear Wilfred, I assure you ' 
 
 Wilfred jumped up. 
 
 "Then I take you at your word! I take you at your 
 word, mind you! Off you go the day after to-morrow. 
 And I will go now myself and arrange for the seats in the 
 Cote d' Azure." 
 
 And the extraordinary man bustled off. 
 
 Instinctively Richard pressed her hand under the 
 table-cloth. 
 
 "What a husband!" he said. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" she murmured. "II a la tete, a fa. 
 We'll stay a night in Paris, won't we, dear ? We've never 
 been alone in Paris you and I together!" 
 
 "Where shall we stay?" 
 
 "I know a little hotel, a quiet little hotel in the Rue 
 Helder. We shall be absolutely unknown. Oh, darling, 
 what a stroke of luck! and the charm of crossing on the
 
 268 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 boat alone together. It will be like coming back from 
 our honeymoon!" 
 
 He speculated: 
 
 "I wonder if there's another man in the world like 
 Wilfred! Do you think it's possible that he's setting a 
 trap for us?" 
 
 Her laughter rippled. 
 
 "Good heavens, no!" 
 
 The Hilary Term began splendidly. Never had the 
 table in his chambers presented such a delightful spectacle 
 as it did on the first day of the term. It was covered 
 with huge stacks of papers, and on the front page of each 
 was marked a large fee. 
 
 By the side of the table stood John, beaming with 
 pride. 
 
 He told Richard that he had taken a set of chambers 
 in Westminster which would be ready for occupation 
 before Parliament sat. They were not expensive, and, 
 beyond doubt, they would prove a prudent speculation. 
 
 "There is one thing I want to ask you, sir," said John. 
 "You see you are coming in for a large Parliamentary 
 practice. If ever you should think of going into Parlia- 
 ment you will, of course, have to sacrifice it. It would 
 seem a very great loss of your income to you and me. 
 Of course, if you don't go into Parliament, sir, you have 
 no chance of ever being Solicitor-General or Attorney- 
 General, or even of getting a judgeship. I should like 
 to know if you have any idea of going into Parliament." 
 
 Richard did not immediately reply. He had long 
 realised that the time would come when it would be 
 necessary for him to decide whether he would prefer a 
 colossal income at the Parliamentary Bar and no pros- 
 pects, except financial prospects, or a semi-Parliamentary
 
 THE POSITION OF BILLY 269 
 
 career with a view to becoming a law officer or a judge. 
 
 "It will be time enough to decide that, John, when 
 I've taken silk." 
 
 "Well, sir, I've been thinking a great deal about that, 
 and things being as they are, and we getting the fees we 
 do I don't think the moment has yet come for you to 
 take silk. But should any of the leading K.C.'s at the 
 Parliamentary Bar or on the Common Law side die, or 
 should anything happen to them, you might be compelled 
 to apply to the Chancellor at once. It is the most im- 
 portant thing in the world to know the precise moment 
 to take silk." 
 
 Richard smiled. 
 
 "And you, of all men, John, are the most likely to 
 know the exact moment." 
 
 The clerk's mouth slid from side to side with pleasure. 
 
 "I thank you, sir, and I'm quite sure that you will act 
 on my judgment." 
 
 " I always act on your judgment." 
 
 "Thank you, sir, I'm very pleased to hear it. Oh, 
 there's one other matter, sir. A brief came down from 
 Venables, Hampton and Brinstable." 
 
 "Yes?" He looked up sharply. 
 
 "Well, sir, I sent it back." 
 
 "Wasn't the fee good enough?" 
 
 "The figures were good enough, sir, but " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I wouldn't guarantee that we should ever get the 
 money, sir." 
 
 "What the devil do you mean? My brother-in-law 
 is in the firm." 
 
 "I know that, sir," answered John. "And their 
 clerk made a bit of fuss on that account. But I said, 
 brother-in-law or no brother-in-law, we don't mix up
 
 270 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 family matters with finance. Those were my words, 
 sir." 
 
 "What sort of a case was it ?" 
 
 "It was a commercial case, sir. As far as I could 
 make out, Venables, Hampton, and Brinstable took a 
 sort of personal interest. I think they acted for the 
 plaintiffs." 
 
 Richard remained thoughtful. 
 
 "What is the reputation of this firm in the Temple ?" 
 
 John rubbed a thumb along his fat chin. 
 
 "They're hard to get money from." 
 
 "Yes, but that's true of a great many firms. A large 
 number of the best firms pride themselves on paying their 
 office expenses out of the interest on the money they 
 have received for counsels' fees." 
 
 "Yes, sir," explained John, "that's just it. The best 
 firms can do that and you know that the money is safe, 
 Your principal is safe, and they collar the interest. I 
 don't say it's a right thing to do. But you can't quarrel 
 with the best firms. They can make their own terms 
 with most people. In a year's time they won't be able 
 to make their own terms with us. But when a firm like 
 Venables, Hampton and Brinstable don't pay counsels' 
 fees pretty prompt, all barristers' clerks fight shy of 'em. 
 I've seen lots of no-cure no-pay men appearing in court 
 for Venables, Hampton and Brinstable." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 At that moment the junior clerk came in: 
 
 " Mr. Brinstable wishes to speak to you on the telephone, 
 sir. Can you speak to him ?" 
 
 "All right. Put him through to me." 
 
 "Yes, yes. I am Richard. . . . No, I don't think it's 
 at all probable that my clerk was in any way insulting to
 
 THE POSITION OF BILLY 271 
 
 your clerk. . . . He had absolute authority to refuse 
 briefs. . . . Yes, yes, the fee was enough. He refused 
 it" and here Richard looked at John "because I'm 
 too busy. . . . Oh, you think that is not the real reason." 
 . . . Richard's eyes flashed. "If you are impertinent 
 I shall ring off. . . . Yes, I daresay you are worried. 
 But that's no excuse. If you want to know, I have heard 
 that some of your cases have been conducted by no-cure 
 no-pay men. I can't afford to earn that sort of reputation 
 myself. ... I would certainly be willing to do you a 
 favour. But I can't afford to do anybody a favour at 
 the expense of my reputation." . . . His eyes glittered 
 angrily. The hand that was holding the receiver clenched 
 tight. "That settles it." Immediately he rang off 
 and turned to John: 
 
 "Under no circumstances whatever will you take any 
 briefs from the firm of Venables, Hampton and Brin- 
 stable." 
 
 "Not even if they bring a cheque, sir?" 
 
 "Not even if they bring cash!" 
 
 "I think you're quite right, sir." 
 
 "That will do."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE ATTITUDE OF LADY MEYVILLE 
 
 THE result of this conversation was a complete es- 
 trangement between the brothers-in-law. Occasionally 
 Richard saw Ethel by appointment at his flat. She never 
 complained. She tried to effect a reconciliation between 
 him and her husband. But Richard declined. 
 
 "This is not your quarrel, Ethel," he said one Sunday 
 afternoon when she came to see him. "You have nothing 
 to do with it. Ever since I met him I've had great diffi- 
 culty in tolerating him. After what he said to me on 
 the telephone I find it impossible to tolerate him. That 
 is the end of the matter." 
 
 Suddenly she burst into tears. 
 
 "Dick, Dick, I'm afraid, I'm afraid. I feel as if 
 something terrible is going to happen. Oh, Richard, 
 you understand things. Don't you see that something 
 terrible is hanging over my head ?" 
 
 White-faced and trembling she looked at him. Her 
 eyes had grown larger, and terror stared out from their 
 depths. 
 
 "My dear," he said, trying to reassure her, "what 
 can you mean? What can possibly be hanging over 
 your head?" 
 
 "I don't know," and again she shuddered. "But I 
 know that there's a great deal going on that I don't 
 understand Billy has changed. He is afraid of some- 
 thing, too." 
 
 "My dear girl," he answered, "believe me that, if I
 
 THE ATTITUDE OF LADY MEYVILLE 273 
 
 thought I could do anything for Billy, I would, in spite 
 of what has happened." 
 
 Slowly she spoke: 
 
 "Richard, I don't believe he would let you. He hates 
 you. Your success is maddening to him. You know 
 that when you were struggling he never sent you a brief. 
 He never wanted you to succeed. I know I ought not 
 to give my husband away like this. But, Richard, 
 what can I do ? I am the most miserable woman in the 
 world." 
 
 "My dear Ethel," he said, and he put his hands firmly 
 on her shoulders. "I'm doing very well for myself now. 
 I'm making money a good deal of it. It is very unlikely 
 I'm afraid that I shall ever marry, and if I do marry I 
 shall marry a very rich woman. So you will always be 
 provided for. If Billy's affairs go to the devil, I will 
 give you an allowance. If you are fond of Billy, you 
 can give him some of it. If you're not fond of Billy, 
 you can separate from him. So, if the worst comes to 
 the worst, you need not worry, old girl." 
 
 She stared vaguely about the room, anguish drawing 
 her eyebrows together in a point. She seemed to be 
 about to speak again: to tell him something or to ask 
 him something. But instead of that she buried her 
 head in a paroxysm of weeping. 
 
 Suddenly Richard was seized with an idea. 
 
 "Mother must come and stay with you. Hasn't she 
 suggested it ? " 
 
 Through the sobs the words came: 
 
 "No; I suggested it." 
 
 "And she refused!" exclaimed Richard in surprise. 
 
 "Well, you know, mother is getting old. She is not 
 as strong as she was. I don't think she is quite as well- 
 balanced as she used to be, and she is simply insane about
 
 274 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Montague. She spends most of her time at the theatre. 
 She reads plays for him there. And, in a month, he is 
 putting up a piece that he accepted on her advice!" 
 
 His jaw dropped in astonishment. "It is a curious 
 thing how suddenly a woman becomes infirm. After 
 fifty-eight she nearly always degenerates either mentally 
 or physically in a fortnight." 
 
 "Dick, Dick," said Ethel, with a sad note in her voice. 
 "You know I sometimes think it is all my fault. After 
 our engagement the change began. But I should just 
 love to have her with me. I shall be so afraid. It will 
 all be so strange and so cold." 
 
 Again she shuddered. 
 
 "I don't think I shall ever get through it." 
 
 Then her wild eyes went to the ceiling: 
 
 "And what will he be doing all the time? I shall be 
 so anxious about him. Oh, if I could only see the future 
 six months ahead!" 
 
 She sat erect, with tightly clenched hands. Then she 
 walked slowly, heavily, laboriously to the door. 
 
 As her four-wheeler drove away, he hailed a hansom 
 and drove to Gloucester Terrace. There he found his 
 mother surrounded by designs for theatrical costumes, 
 and taking no little pride in the fact that Montague had 
 consulted her on the subject. 
 
 Instantly he dominated the situation. He told her 
 that she must stay with Ethel. She talked about the 
 first night of the play. But he would have none of it. 
 
 At last, seeing that common sense had ceased to appeal 
 to her, he stated deliberately, even brutally: 
 
 "Either you go to stay with Ethel or you don't. If 
 you don't, I stop your allowance." 
 
 Instantly her whole frame was a mass of quivering 
 nerves.
 
 THE ATTITUDE OF LADY MEYVILLE 275 
 
 "Stop my allowance! You dare not! Oh, no, you 
 dare not ! A son who stops his mother's allowance is 
 But suddenly her mood changed. " A fig for you and your 
 allowance! I'm going to make money. I'm going to 
 make a great deal of money." 
 
 Good heavens! Had this crazy little woman been 
 embarking on speculation at her time of life? 
 
 "Mother," he said in terror, "you don't mean to say 
 that you are speculating without consulting me?" 
 
 Her eyes flashed with indignation. 
 
 "Consulting my ungrateful son! I should think not, 
 indeed." 
 
 "Are you speculating?" 
 
 "Never you mind. You've no respect for your mother. 
 You never had any regard for the family. Even Montague 
 says that you are ashamed of the family." 
 
 "Montague says that ?" exclaimed Richard, bewildered. 
 
 "Montague says that," she repeated triumphantly. 
 " Mrs. Pegram says that. Mrs. Bolitho says that. Every- 
 body says that." 
 
 Quietly he answered, "Yes, yes, I suppose they agree 
 with what you tell them. I'm very sorry, mother." 
 
 But she would not listen to him. She worked herself 
 into a passion of rage. Accusations against himself for 
 meanness, ingratitude, immorality, and other faults were 
 showered upon him. The scene was too painful to be 
 bearable. 
 
 "What could be the cause of it?" he asked himself. 
 
 There was a new burden of care on his shoulders as 
 he left the house. 
 
 He went back to the Temple and worked far into the 
 night. 
 
 On returning to Hay Hill he slept the sleep of a tired 
 man.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN THE DIVORCE COURT 
 
 IN the early weeks of the Hilary term every moment 
 of Richard's time was occupied. Often he arrived at the 
 Temple at nine o'clock, and it was not an unusual thing 
 for him to leave his chambers at midnight. If not actually 
 engaged in work, he found that his brain engrossed itself 
 entirely with details of his various cases. In no sense 
 was it callousness that excluded his family from his 
 thoughts. He felt, however, and he felt very bitterly, 
 his powerlessness to help Ethel. 
 
 Day by day he hoped that his mother or his sister, or 
 even Billy, would give him some information as to what 
 was happening in Tilney Street. But neither made a 
 move. He consoled himself with the consciousness that 
 he had done his best, that he had advised the safest course; 
 more than that he could not do. He had in his mind, 
 often at the same time, the interests of a dozen litigants. 
 Even Mrs. Ainslie occupied a secondary position. If 
 she had not constantly telephoned to him much to the 
 disgust of John it is possible that she might have slipped 
 out of his mind. For his mind was so -occupied that it 
 absolutely disregarded the claims of his heart. 
 
 But when he saw her the power of his heart swept 
 away all things. 
 
 He loved her at these moments more passionately, 
 more violently, than before. 
 
 And she, in her knowledge of his character, concen- 
 trated in these moments the enthusiasm of days of neglect.
 
 IN THE DIVORCE COURT 277 
 
 She became apparently reconciled to the altered conditions 
 which his success had imposed upon him and her. 
 
 One morning at ten o'clock he was at Essex Court 
 engrossed in his notes on a cause cekbre the case of 
 Cummidge v. Cummidge and Brostell. He, with a 
 junior who practised regularly in the Divorce Court, 
 had been briefed for the petitioner. The respondent 
 and co-respondent were represented by eminent K.C.'s. 
 The case, which had been going on for two days, had 
 attracted a vast amount of public interest. 
 
 His client, a man of strange and unsympathetic tastes, 
 had incurred a considerable amount of odium. Richard's 
 task was a difficult one. Everything depended upon 
 his cross-examination of a singularly pretty and innocent- 
 looking woman. On the previous day she had gone 
 through her examination in chief. When the court sat 
 that morning it would be Richard's entirely unpleasant 
 task to cross-examine her. His own sympathies were 
 not with his own client. He was sorry for the little woman, 
 and did not believe in her guilt. But in his mind he was 
 devising subtle pitfalls to entrap her when John entered. 
 
 "Can you see Mr. Barnard Abrahams?" 
 
 "Who the devil is Barnard Abrahams? I can't see 
 anybody now." 
 
 "Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Barnard Abrahams is a 
 partner in Abrahams, Noseworthy and Abrahams. I 
 think it would be well," he said confidently, "for you 
 to see him." 
 
 Richard made a movement suggestive of irritation. 
 
 "I can't see anybody now all right; show him in." 
 
 He felt a feeling almost of satisfaction in brushing 
 aside his notes intended to involve the ruin of a woman 
 who had suffered much. 
 
 Mr. Barnard Abrahams, a stout, respectable Jew,
 
 278 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 a member of one of the most important and the most 
 honourable Anglo- Asiatic firms in London, entered. 
 
 "Mr. Meyville," he said, "I was walking down to the 
 City, and, knowing that you were an early man, I thought 
 you would be willing to waive ceremony and let me speak 
 to you on an important matter." 
 
 Richard nodded assent. 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Abrahams; but I have only a few 
 minutes to spare. I have to be in court ' He took 
 out his watch and clicked the cover. 
 
 In verbal shorthand the eminent solicitor explained 
 the case. A certain woman of the name of Gabrielle 
 Levi, a French Jewess, had been committed for trial at 
 the Old Bailey. The case would come on at the next 
 session. By profession she was a pirate of the streets. 
 The man who lived on her earnings, an Englishman of 
 evil repute, a resident in the neighbourhood of Leicester 
 Square, had been killed by her. Would Richard under- 
 take the defence ? 
 
 Frankly he answered that he would not. 
 
 "It might be possible, Mr. Abrahams, to reduce the 
 offence to manslaughter. I happen to have seen an 
 account of the police court proceedings. The woman 
 hit the man on the head with a hatchet. Previously she 
 had threatened him. Technically it is murder. It 
 would, I dare say, be possible to reduce it to manslaughter. 
 But I don't care for the case." 
 
 Mr. Abrahams bent forward earnestly. 
 
 "I think you can secure an acquittal. That's what 
 we want an acquittal." 
 
 "Oh, my dear sir, out of the question." 
 
 "I put it to you," said Mr. Abrahams, drawing his 
 chair nearer, "as a possibility. I don't think anybody 
 else could get the woman off. But I think you could."
 
 IN THE DIVORCE COURT 279 
 
 Richard waived aside the expression of opinion, which 
 he believed to be merely fulsome flattery. 
 
 But the other persisted. 
 
 "So far you have got the reputation of always being 
 on the right side. A barrister in your position is like a 
 jockey who is lucky in his mounts. Believe me, sir, 
 that jurors at the Old Bailey are very much influenced by 
 the counsel that are retained; far more than the jurors 
 of the King's Bench. Besides, nowadays an enormous 
 amount of a criminal trial is conducted in the newspapers. 
 As you know we have the controlling interest in a 
 great many journals. Although it is contempt of court 
 to say anything prejudicial to a prisoner, it is very easy 
 indeed to put a vast amount of paragraphs in the prison- 
 er's favour. I think," he spoke slowly, and he spoke 
 with an intention not expressed by the actual words he 
 used, "I think you would find it to your advantage in 
 a great many ways to conduct the case and to secure 
 an acquittal." 
 
 Richard looked at Mr. Abrahams. He remembered 
 the vast efforts employed always by the Jewish community 
 to rescue from the toils of the law any member of the 
 Ancient Faith. He recollected the case of Lipski, when 
 the Jews moved heaven and earth to bring about the 
 respite of that murderer's sentence, even while the Home 
 Secretary was walking about with the man's confession 
 in his pocket. To his mind there occurred the case of a 
 Hebrew financier accused of fraudulent financial dealings, 
 and the herculean labours on the part of the Jews. In 
 his mind he weighed the desirability of offending or 
 obliging this vast organisation. Was he strong enough, 
 he wondered. 
 
 Then Mr. Abrahams made a false move. 
 
 "We will give you any fee you like."
 
 280 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "That is a subject," he answered, "for the considera- 
 tion of my clerk not for me. As a matter of fact, I 
 don't want to appear in the case." 
 
 This was dismissal. 
 
 Mr. Abrahams rose. 
 
 "Perhaps, Mr. Meyville, you will allow me to fix up a 
 consultation with you on the matter for this afternoon. 
 May I speak to your clerk about it? I should like to 
 bring with me one or two members of the Anglo-Alien 
 Purity Protection Society. They have taken a great 
 interest in the woman. And I daresay they will be 
 able to throw some light on the case which might induce 
 you to interest yourself in this unfortunate. Mind you, 
 it binds you to nothing." 
 
 It was now a quarter past ten. There were only a 
 few minutes before it would be necessary for him to go 
 into court. 
 
 "All right," he answered. "Settle the appointment 
 with my clerk. But I don't think it will be any use." 
 
 Hastily he ran through his notes, and then rushed over 
 to the robing-room. 
 
 The court was waiting when he entered, breathless. 
 
 Immediately on his legs, he began the cross-examin- 
 ation of Mrs. Cummidge. A delicate little woman with 
 a china-white face and large, innocent blue eyes, she 
 stared almost sweetly at him. He was so handsome, 
 so courteous, that she could scarcely believe that it was 
 his duty with a strong, cruel hand to tear out the secrets 
 of her heart. 
 
 He spoke to her as a friend, almost as an admirer. 
 
 To the thinking of this innocent little woman he was 
 more like a kindly and expert surgeon than a hired enemy, 
 subsidised at a huge price to do her the most terrible 
 wrong.
 
 IN THE DIVORCE COURT 281 
 
 He showed her letters, asked if she had written them; 
 received her admissions as though applauding them. 
 He asked her questions as to her meetings with "Duggie" 
 Brostell, and fixed with consummate care the dates of cer- 
 tain events. So delicately, indeed, did he put his questions 
 that even in open court, in the eyes of greedily curious 
 men and cynical, unsexed women, she scarcely felt any 
 indelicacy in revealing the most intimate details of her 
 life. 
 
 Suddenly he put a sort of consolidated question: 
 
 "You have called this person such and such names 
 in your letters; you have said such and such things about 
 yourself in your letters. He has called you this and 
 that in his letters. He has called himself by various pet 
 names in his letters. You have seen him alone at this 
 place and that place for so many hours at a time. Do 
 you deny" now his words came fiercely "that you 
 were his mistress?" 
 
 A curious smile played about the effeminate face of 
 the curly, golden-haired, over-dressed little co-respon- 
 dent. 
 
 If the judge of the Divorce Court had any knowledge 
 of life outside of the Divorce Court, that smile would 
 have convinced him of the woman's innocence, so effemi- 
 nate and cynical and vile was it. It was a smile of ill- 
 favoured, unearned pride. 
 
 The poor woman in the witness-box saw that smile. 
 It struck horror into her heart. 
 
 Indignantly she answered: "Never." 
 
 Contemptuously Richard's lips curled as he looked 
 down at the effeminate mannikin in front of him. Theatri- 
 cally, he recognised in an instant that the expression of 
 his lips should not be wasted. 
 
 Without relaxing a nerve, he turned on the witness.
 
 282 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 The look on that handsome, just man's face brought 
 her defence tripping to her lips. 
 
 "Why, he was more like a girl friend than anything 
 else!" 
 
 "That is your answer," said Richard sternly. "That 
 is what you ask the gentlemen of the jury to believe." 
 
 Instantly the frightened woman in the witness-box 
 felt conscious of her peril. From the mouth of the kindly 
 counsel with the silver tongue had suddenly shot the fangs 
 of a snake. 
 
 Shivering with fear, she felt that the struggle was at 
 an end. She had no further strength. Like a white 
 rabbit fascinated by a huge python, she looked for a few 
 seconds into Richard's face, heedless of her own counsel, 
 who was preparing to re-examine her. Then her self- 
 possession left her. She trembled from head to foot. 
 Powerless to control herself, she burst into a paroxysm 
 of weeping. Otherwise there was a complete silence in 
 the Court, except for the drawing of breath indicative that 
 someone had done a monstrous thing. 
 
 Richard heard a half-stifled "Oh!" in a woman's 
 voice. 
 
 He turned round. 
 
 Three rows behind him he saw Gwen. 
 
 Instantly he scribbled a note, turned to a briefless 
 junior behind him, and said: 
 
 "Pass that to the lady in the big black hat." 
 
 Gwen shot a glance almost of indignant hatred at him. 
 It fell harmless against the two tails of his wig. She was 
 in arms for her sex. She read the note, and her eyes 
 shot back "I won't." 
 
 He had asked her to leave the court. 
 
 The body of the woman in the witness-box continued 
 to heave with sharp shudders.
 
 IN THE DIVORCE COURT 83 
 
 Richard saw that a further advantage could be gained. 
 
 "I beg your lordship's pardon," he said, "but when 
 the witness has composed herself I have one or two ' 
 
 At these words from the now hateful voice, the woman's 
 white, tear-stained face raised itself over the rail of the 
 box in sheer cold fear. 
 
 "I have two or three more very important questions 
 to ask this witness." He gave every word its maximum 
 of weight. "Of course, my lord, I am anxious that the 
 lady should have every opportunity to compose herself. 
 Indeed, I should not like to put these questions to the 
 witness until she is completely restored." 
 
 A wave of terror passed over the wan, quivering face. 
 What could he ask now? What could be worse than 
 what had happened ? She felt that she was utterly 
 disgraced already. Almost in an instant she had been 
 dragged from a pinnacle of innocence and plunged into 
 a morass of guilt. After the evidence of the letters, 
 with the evidence of the meetings, what judge and jury 
 could believe her innocent? It was futile to continue 
 the fight. 
 
 The Mephistopheles in wig and gown had by some 
 forensic trickery prepared more crushing blows. Why 
 should she wait for further dishonour? He had broken 
 her heart. He had ruined her life. That must be the 
 end. 
 
 A wild, appealing glance shot from her eyes to her 
 counsel, a kindly K. C., who, in spite of the fact that 
 he had spent the greater portion of his life in the Divorce 
 Court, did not outside its walls divide all humanity into 
 possible petitioners, respondents, and co-respondents. 
 
 By the light of his brief he firmly believed his client 
 guilty. 
 
 In him there was no help : his face was barren of comfort.
 
 284 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Courage came to the little woman, the courage that 
 comes to all creatures in the moment of death. Her voice 
 was only just audible. 
 
 "My lord I won't I can't answer any more ques- 
 tions." 
 
 The judge gravely, and yet almost tenderly, addressed 
 her: 
 
 "I don't know whether you quite understand what 
 that means?" 
 
 Her eyes, wide-open, innocent eyes, stared up at him. 
 
 "I am afraid I do, my lord. But I can't go on. I 
 can't bear it any longer." 
 
 She knew that the jury did not move in the society of 
 persons of the "Duggie" type, and would never under- 
 stand the relation in which they stood to women. 
 
 "What do you say, Mr. Indermere?" said the judge, 
 turning to her counsel. 
 
 There was no help for it. Mr. Indermere could do 
 nothing in the matter. 
 
 The perfumed "Duggie," a pink flush of pride on 
 either cheek as he brushed the powder from his eye- 
 lashes, communicated with his counsel. A few minutes' 
 wrangling, and a decree nisi was pronounced. 
 
 John tapped Richard on the shoulder, and hurried 
 him into another court. 
 
 A vulgarian, with a pimple-studded face and a thick 
 moustache, laughed to a friend: 
 
 "I'm damned glad that I've got rid of that damned 
 woman. Come and have a bottle, my boy." The 
 petitioner was in fine fettle. 
 
 The golden-haired youth went out of the court with 
 a winsome, proud, and wobbly walk. 
 
 "Women always give one away," he said in a shrill 
 voice to his counsel.
 
 IN THE DIVORCE COURT 285 
 
 In the box, her head buried in her hands, the innocent 
 woman sobbed her soul out until the usher gently led 
 her away. 
 
 Gwendolen drove home to Green Street, well-nigh 
 hating Richard in her heart. 
 
 Until four o'clock that afternoon Richard, in Court 7, 
 K.B.D., gave no thought to anything save and except 
 the manner in which iron ore was shipped at Bilbao to 
 the English consumers at Newcastle.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A T 
 
 A. 13. 
 
 THREE times between four and five did Gwendolen 
 telephone to the Temple. On each occasion John told 
 her that Richard was engaged at a conference or a con- 
 sultation. 
 
 She had begun to dislike John. 
 
 At five o'clock Mr. Abrahams appeared by appoint- 
 ment. 
 
 With him were two members of the Anglo- Alien Purity 
 Protection Society. As such they were introduced by 
 the solicitor. 
 
 Richard, looking up from the papers on his table, saw 
 with surprise that one was the manager of the St. Alphonse 
 Hotel. 
 
 Amusement concealed his annoyance. Astonishment 
 at the far-reaching freemasonry of aliens in England 
 succeeded. He was completely in their hands. He did 
 not trouble the Committee to state their reasons for in- 
 ducing him to defend Gabrielle Levi. He undertook her 
 defence. 
 
 With a touch of sarcasm, directed at the manager of the 
 St. Alphonse, as they were leaving the room, he said: 
 
 "I am sure that not only Anglo- Alien, but English 
 purity is safe in your hands." 
 
 Shortly after their departure Jack Nicholl, the tall, 
 keen-faced Treasury counsel, whose chambers were 
 above Richard's, came briskly in. 
 
 This eloquent, gaunt man, with a huge nose and a
 
 PROPOSED PROSECUTION OF "A. B." 287 
 
 drawn, ascetic face, one of the most popular men at the 
 Bar, and certainly, in spite of his sinister appearance, 
 one of the most kind-hearted, held papers in his hand. 
 
 "My dear Dick," he said, "I'm awfully busy just now. 
 I shall be working upstairs till late to-night on other things. 
 Would you mind looking through these papers for me ? 
 That there ought to be a conviction I'm convinced. It 
 would succeed. But I haven't actually had time to 
 look carefully at the papers. If, by any chance, you see 
 a flaw anywhere, let me know, will you? Of course, 
 you're a busy man, too, but I shall be very much obliged 
 if you will do me this favour." 
 
 "My dear Jack, have you ever come across anybody 
 yet who was not anxious to do you a favour?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Ke smiled. "I've often thought, when 
 leaving the Old Bailey, that some prisoners' friends 
 were on the point of breaking my head." 
 
 He put the papers on the table. 
 
 "It's the usual affair solicitor embezzlement you 
 know. If it's all right, we shall apply for a warrant 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 And he strode out. 
 
 Richard readily put aside his own work in order to 
 accede to the kindly man's request. Often and often 
 had Nicholl done him a good turn, given him advice, and, 
 what was more to him at one time, encouragement. And 
 it pleased him immensely to do him this slight service. 
 
 He turned to the papers. 
 
 On the outside sheet was: 
 
 IN THE MATTER OF THE PROPOSED PROSECUTION 
 
 OF "A.B." 
 
 He undid the tape. 
 
 The solicitor, "A.B.," whoever he was, had clearly 
 embezzled trust moneys. "A.B.," whoever he was,
 
 288 THE OTHER MAX'S WIFE 
 
 apparently lived beyond his means. The story was 
 almost common form. 
 
 "Damn it," said Richard to himself, "these solicitors 
 are getting worse and worse. Before long, the whole 
 lot of them will be in jail." 
 
 He became indignant with "A.B.," whoever he was. 
 Nothing could exceed the absolute baseness of his pro- 
 ceedings. In the nature of things, the widow, the friend- 
 less, the defenceless, all those, in fact, who are common 
 objects of sympathy and respect by other profes- 
 sions, are the orthodox prey for the cupidity of the 
 solicitor. 
 
 Suddenly his pencil dropped. Beads of perspiration 
 came out on his forehead. He took his thumb and 
 drew it along a line of the typewritten brief as though 
 to verify it, as though to convince himself that what he 
 saw there was actually written and not a fiction of his 
 brain. And yet there were the letters. There was the 
 date. 
 
 The thing was unmistakable. 
 
 "Terrible! Terrible!" he murmured, as he rose 
 from the table and walked with his head bent, up and 
 down the room. Three times four times he paced 
 up and down, and then stared into the glass with unseeing 
 eyes. He rattled his keys and his money in his pocket, 
 and then, a limp, hopeless man, threw himself into an 
 arm-chair. 
 
 He stared straight before him. After five minutes 
 he rose suddenly from the chair, walked back to the 
 table, and looked fixedly at the brief. 
 
 "Married on the 29th. of July last year." 
 
 There it was. There was the clue. 
 
 "A.B." was Billy Brinstable. 
 
 There could be no doubt about it.
 
 PROPOSED PROSECUTION OF "A. B." 289 
 
 Without reading to the end of the brief he began it 
 again. 
 
 With every nerve of his alert brain he sought a loophole. 
 
 He reached the last page and dropped the papers with 
 limp hands. "Seven years." 
 
 Then he rose again and paced the room. 
 
 "Seven years, that's what he'll get, and no power on 
 earth can stop it. Good God! And my sister, and the 
 child!" 
 
 The door opened, and John entered. 
 
 "Can you speak to Mrs. Ainslie on the telephone?" 
 
 He roared, "Ainslie! Confound it, no! I can't 
 speak to anybody." 
 
 The door closed. 
 
 For several minutes he could say nothing to himself 
 but "Seven years! Seven years!" 
 
 Suddenly he seized the papers, tied them up with the 
 tape, and rushed up to Nicholl's room. Imperatively 
 he flung the brief on the gaunt man's table. 
 
 "You've read 'em?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I've read 'em. It's a dead case, isn't it?" 
 
 "Dead. What do you think he'll get?" 
 
 "It's a bad case. Besides, the prosecutor, a man 
 called Wagstaffe, is very bitter. He's a rich man with a 
 pretty wife a Jewess, I think. I imagine there's some- 
 thing behind all this something to do with the wife." 
 
 Richard, at the word "Wagstaffe," put his hand to 
 his forehead, searching to locate that unusual name 
 somewhere in his memory. Suddenly he fixed it. The 
 pretty little Jewess with the flaxen hair whom he had 
 seen, a sorrowful spectator at Billy's wedding, was a 
 Mrs. Wagstaffe. 
 
 Now he understood. 
 
 "What do you think he'll get?" he repeated.
 
 290 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Well, as a matter of fact," answered Jack, "I think 
 it's rather a vindictive prosecution. I should say ten 
 years." 
 
 "Good heavens!" 
 
 The alert eyes of the Treasury counsel looked up at 
 him: 
 
 "Do you know the man?" 
 
 "Jack," he said, and his voice shook as he stood with 
 the electric light full on his face, 'A.B.' is my brother- 
 in-law." 
 
 "The devil!" exclaimed Nicholl, rising to his full 
 height. "My dear chap, I'm. ..." 
 
 Though the words of sympathy failed him, yet there 
 was sincere sympathy in his voice. Though he spent his 
 entire life in an atmosphere of crime, in an atmosphere 
 of sorrow, of panic, and of fear, there were many moments 
 when his heart bled for the monstrous criminals that he 
 sent to their long home. In his vast experience it had 
 often been necessary for him to defend personal friends, 
 sometimes sons of personal friends soul-shattering ex- 
 periences, these. 
 
 "And you say, Jack, that you think it's a vindictive 
 prosecution ? You'll do your best, won't you ? You'll 
 do your best to let him down lightly?" 
 
 Firmly, the other answered: 
 
 "I shall retire from the case. My dear Dick, you're 
 a friend of mine. I can't possibly prosecute your brother- 
 in-law." 
 
 With a long, thin hand he stroked his forehead as he 
 added : 
 
 "There are moments when our profession is too 
 hideous." 
 
 "But I ask you to. It's much better that you should. 
 It's much better that you should do it than anybody
 
 PROPOSED PROSECUTION OF "A. B." 291 
 
 else. You could well, you could minimise the thing." 
 
 "No!" Nicholl replied. "You see it's sure to leak 
 out that he's a relative of yours. Thank God, we've 
 got some esprit de corps at the Bar. Somebody else 
 must do it. Whoever it is will do what he can. The 
 judge will probably let him down lightly as lightly as 
 possible." 
 
 "What do you mean by lightly? What do you mean 
 by that?" 
 
 "Well, I'm afraid that in the present state of public 
 opinion it can't be less than seven years. I'm awfully 
 sorry. A good chap, was he?" 
 
 The past tense sounded horrible to Richard. 
 
 "No," he answered grimly, "he's not. But it's hell 
 for my sister and there are other things." 
 
 Nicholl took his hand and shook it firmly. 
 
 Neither spoke. 
 
 The grip of that gaunt man's hand, the hand of a man 
 whom he considered great, not only as a Criminal Court 
 counsel, but great as a human being, brought tears to 
 his eyes as he closed the door. 
 
 For nearly an hour he remained in his room wrapped 
 in thought. Then he told John that he could leave. 
 
 Silence settled down upon the Temple. An occasional 
 footfall sounded on the flagstones of Essex Court. London 
 throbbed and murmured in the distance. Heedless of 
 the time, he sat on. Now and again he would rise and 
 pace the room, his hand gripping his chin. 
 
 Suddenly he went to the telephone. There were no 
 tones in his voice as he spoke. 
 
 "Is that you, Billy? ... I'm Richard. . . . Never 
 mind about that. This is a matter of life and death. . . . 
 What's that? . . . You dropped the receiver? Listen. 
 Answer my questions, and do precisely as I tell you. . . .
 
 292 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Pull yourself together and listen. Where's Ethel ? ... Is 
 there anybody with her in the house? A nurse and the 
 doctor are there? . . . Go out, yourself, taking with 
 you your latchkey in an envelope addressed to me at 
 the New University Club. Take it to the District Mes- 
 senger Boy's office in South Audley Street and send it 
 from there. . . . It's no use asking what this means. . . . 
 What's the time by your watch? ... I make it 8.30. 
 You're three minutes slow. Put your watch on. . . . All 
 right. By each of our watches the time is 8.30. At eleven 
 o'clock to the minute I shall open your front door. You'll 
 see that there's nobody about. ... I shall go straight 
 to your study. You'll be there waiting for me. . . . It's 
 no good asking any questions. What I'm doing, I'm 
 doing for the sake of your honour, for the sake of my 
 sister's honour, for the sake of the child's honour." 
 
 Then he rang off. 
 
 He put on a thick coat, went to the drawer in his writ- 
 ing-table, took out something heavy and glittering, and put 
 it into his pocket. Then he shut up his chambers and 
 walked slowly towards his club. The two or three men 
 who greeted him on the way he did not see. On his arrival 
 he took a misshapen, clumsy envelope from the hall 
 porter, and, dinnerless, walked on to Green Street
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 
 
 
 
 WHEN he found himself outside Gwen's door, he was 
 suddenly confronted by the question, "What have I 
 come here for?" He had stopped automatically at the 
 porch. He had no idea whether she was in or out. He 
 scarcely remembered the streets through which he had 
 passed since leaving the club. The sole solution of his 
 presence on the steps seemed to him that Gwendolen 
 was his natural refuge in time of sorrow. His nerves were 
 strung to the highest pitch. He felt that, unless he was 
 soothed until eleven o'clock, his agony would be intolerable. 
 
 Though he had no intention of telling her anything 
 about the critical position of Billy Brinstable, he knew 
 that her company would have a sedative effect upon his 
 whirling brain. If he could induce her to let him lie 
 down on the sofa whilst she played music soft, dreamy 
 music all would be comparatively well. 
 
 Supposing she were out ! He shuddered at the thought. 
 Then he would pace up and down the streets till eleven 
 o'clock. He was convinced that no society but hers 
 would be tolerable to him. 
 
 Whilst he was waiting for an answer to the bell, he 
 trembled at the possibility that she might be out, or that 
 she might be alone with Wilfred Wilfred in one of his 
 garrulous moods. 
 
 It was with a sigh of relief that he heard Younghus- 
 band's answer that Mrs. Ainslie was in. 
 
 "Is she alone?" lie asked.
 
 294. THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Yes, sir; Mr. Ainslie went out immediately after 
 dinner." 
 
 He found Gwendolen in the library. She was sitting 
 in a straight-backed red leather chair. There was no 
 book by her side, no newspaper within her reach. Her 
 thoughts absorbed her. 
 
 On the announcement made by the butler, she turned 
 hastily towards the door. 
 
 Richard caught her glance before it reached him. 
 It was unmistakably a glance of annoyance, almost 
 of dislike. Then when her eyes perceived him, the 
 expression changed to something he had never seen 
 before. 
 
 The door closed. 
 
 "Richard," she cried, and rushed towards him, "what's 
 the matter?" 
 
 She stared at his haggard face, an unhealthy pallor be- 
 neath the skin. Lines that had hitherto been merely in- 
 dicated were now deep furrows; they told of stark deter- 
 mination; they told of acute grief. 
 
 He stood as one dazed by the light, wearing his top coat 
 and carrying his hat in his hand. 
 
 Slowly, with expressionless eyes, he moved to the chair 
 which Gwendolen had vacated, and dropped into it. 
 His hat fell on the floor; his arms sank on to the arms of 
 the chair. 
 
 And then he looked up at her; in his eyes an obvious 
 craving for sympathy. 
 
 She stood above him, bewildered. His eyes asked for 
 tenderness. They pleaded for consolation. 
 
 She spoke no word. 
 
 Eye to eye, they stared at one another. 
 
 Through her brain flashed a contrast between the ag- 
 gressive cross-examiner who for money had ruined a
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 295 
 
 woman's life a man she hated and the limp, sorrow- 
 stricken sufferer whom she loved. 
 
 In his mind was only one thought. "Why did she not 
 take him in her arms ?" If she had taken him in her arms 
 at that moment she would have witnessed a sight the most 
 terrible in the world: the sight of a strong man when he 
 weeps. If she had thrown her arms about him, as her 
 instinct told her to do, he would have revealed to her the 
 secret chamber of his soul. She would have mrde him 
 more hers than he had ever been before. He would have 
 belonged more completely to her than it is often given for r. 
 man to belong to a woman. He was in the depths of 
 sorrow; the deep black depths from which we can see no 
 egress. Had she given him comfort then, she would have 
 been in the eyes of his soul an angel of mercy until his 
 death. He was suffering to the extreme limit of sorrow. 
 He had the power of suffering to an extent that is rarely 
 found in men. Most of us can scale the highest pinnacles 
 of joy, but there are not many natures capable of being 
 dragged down to the lowest depths of woe. It is a fine- 
 spun character that can be miserable to this degree. 
 
 Still she stood above him and made no movement. Al- 
 most callously she regarded the pathos in his eyes. She 
 was in arms for her sex. Hers was the battle of the inno- 
 cent little woman who had cowered in the witness-box that 
 morning. 
 
 It seemed to her, who had brooded upon the cruelty, up- 
 on the injustice of the man she loved ever since she had 
 seen the hideous curl of contempt upon his lips, that he had 
 realised the turpitude of his conduct; that he, who had 
 inflicted so dire a wrong upon a woman, now felt himself 
 unworthy of a woman's love. She herself had despised 
 her lover in her heart. She had gone secretly to see him 
 at the work that was making him famous and she had
 
 296 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 seen oh, God! Hundreds of bitter phrases had sprung 
 to her mind wherewith to taunt him with his cruelty to 
 womanhood. The sight of his dejection by no means 
 mollified her. It appeared to her right that one who had 
 behaved so abominably should suffer in no slight measure. 
 Here, indeed, was justice in that a man who had ruined 
 a woman's reputation should himself be a limp, haggard 
 shadow of his former self. 
 
 Coldly, at length, she spoke 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Deep in his throat he murmured: "Kiss me, Gwen! 
 For heaven's sake, kiss me! You don't know what I've 
 suffered what I am suffering ! Say nothing, but kiss me." 
 
 "I don't know what you have suffered," she answered 
 she spoke slowly, firmly, with no note of tenderness in 
 her voice "but all you suffer all you may suffer you 
 deserve." 
 
 Instantly he was on his defence. 
 
 "No, no, no!" he cried. "I've deserved nothing. I've 
 done my best!" 
 
 "This morning," she said, "I hated you. I'm not sure 
 that I don't hate you now." 
 
 He raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "How could you ? How could you ? That innocent 
 little woman!" 
 
 Again his eyebrows were notes of interrogation. 
 
 "That woman in the witness-box! That innocent 
 woman. You know she was innocent! Now" her words 
 came quickly "you know exactly what occurred in that 
 case. You know the type of man the co-respondent was 
 talk, talk, talk, that's all. That class of man talks to 
 women as women talk to one another of dress, of scandal, 
 even of babies, at a pinch. It's as clear as the day that the 
 woman loved him. She wrote those letters because she
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 297 
 
 loved him, and then she found out what the little wretch 
 was. And you you, by means of tricks and traps have 
 proved in the eyes of the world that this thing was her 
 lover ! Do you see what you've done, Richard ? What do 
 you think that woman is suffering now? How she must 
 hate you! To think that I've kissed your lips! To think 
 that I have believed you mine! To know that as God sees 
 me, I believe that you would let yourself be retained by 
 Wilfred to prove my infidelity." 
 
 He made no attempt to protect himself against her indig- 
 nation. He was in no mood to fight for himself. He 
 yearned for tenderness, and, instead, he only found griev- 
 ous accusations. To him it seemed that the incidents in 
 the Divorce Court had happened many years ago. The 
 case of Mrs. Cummidge was of no more interest to him 
 than had been the case in which the manager of St. 
 Alphonse had brought about a miscarriage of justice. 
 These things were past. 
 
 Now there was an entr'acte in his life. The curtain 
 would rise at eleven o'clock. Till then he wanted quiet, he 
 wanted peace. Above all, he wanted sympathy for him- 
 self. His shattered nerves would not allow him to listen 
 to Gwen's tirade. Her attitude, which he had not taken 
 the pains to analyse, had come as a shock. Not so much 
 was he annoyed at her lack of understanding as he was un- 
 satisfied in his quest for sympathy. He had come to her 
 house as to a haven of rest before grappling with a crisis 
 that required his entire stock of fortitude. If he could 
 not obtain encouragement from her, he could obtain it no- 
 where. He would walk about the streets. 
 
 Suddenly he rose. 
 
 "What are you doing?" she cried. "You're not 
 going?" 
 
 Drawing a deep breath, he said :
 
 298 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Yes, it is now five minutes past ten." To himself 
 he said : " Fifty-five minutes more. " 
 
 "Where are you going?" she asked. 
 
 "I am going," he answered. 
 
 "No, no, not like that! Oh, Dick, Dick, what's the 
 matter ? Something terrible's the matter. I don't believe 
 it's all remorse." 
 
 He caught the word "remorse." 
 
 "Remorse? What for?" 
 
 "For your murder of that little woman this morning!" 
 
 "Was it only this morning?" he answered. "It seems 
 to me weeks and weeks ago. I had forgotten all about it." 
 
 She put her hands on the thick cloth of his overcoat and 
 stared into his face. 
 
 "Do you think that she'll ever forget this morning ? Do 
 you think that she'll ever forget your face and your cruel 
 smile ?" 
 
 With her tender, white fingers she traced the curves of 
 his mouth. 
 
 "There are those lips. No, no! They're not as they 
 used to be. They seem to be cruelly curled even now. 
 There is a deep line at each corner a line that I have 
 never been able to kiss away. And sometimes, Richard, 
 I thought you had a mouth like a Cupid's bow; almost 
 too beautiful for a man, it seemed. And to think"- 
 she hesitated "and to think! oh, to think that you could 
 look like that! I suppose that there is in each of us some- 
 thing that the other does not suspect. And yet I fancied 
 that there was nothing about you that was secret from me. 
 I thought that I knew every line and every curve of you. 
 And I don't know the worst part of you. There is a depth 
 of cruelty that I hadn't fathomed that I hadn't dreamed 
 of. After this morning I shall always be frightened of 
 you."
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 299 
 
 Suddenly she gave a little cry of horror. 
 
 She recoiled from him. 
 
 He was standing gaunt and sinister. 
 
 It seemed that all his face had shrunken into his profile. 
 His eyes appeared to have sunk deep into his head and 
 to glare forth doom. It was as though there was a sheet 
 of metal behind his eyes. His hands were thrust into 
 the pockets of his coat, and he was looking right through 
 her at something that was dying in agony at his glance. 
 
 For two or three minutes she stared at him as he stood 
 motionless. It was not apparent to her that he realised 
 she was in the room. 
 
 Slowly, with heavy steps, he walked towards the door. 
 
 She sprang on him. 
 
 "Come back!" 
 
 He looked at his watch. 
 
 " It is twenty minutes past ten." 
 
 "Why should you always be looking at the time?" 
 
 Absently he answered: 
 
 "Forty minutes more." 
 
 "Come here, Richard; I can't stand this horror. Be 
 yourself. What's the matter?" 
 
 She hesitated for an instant, and then she seized him 
 by the shoulders. She was surprised to find with what 
 ease she pulled him to the sofa. 
 
 "Take off your coat!" she ordered. 
 
 He stood up, and she pulled it from his arms. As it 
 dropped on the floor, she heard a dull thud. 
 
 The two were face to face on the sofa. 
 
 As if influenced by some premonition of evil, she whis- 
 pered : 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 In a low voice he answered "Nothing," and he bundled 
 up the coat beside him on the sofa. Then his eyes wan-
 
 300 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 dered. His hand sought his cigarette-case in which a 
 single opal was set. He opened it. It was empty. She 
 watched him curiously. As he was on the point of replac- 
 ing it in his pocket, she stopped him. 
 
 Never mind," she said. "I've got some cigarettes 
 here. Have you forgotten ?" 
 
 'Forgotten? Forgotten what?" 
 
 "What day this is." 
 
 He passed his hand across his forehead as he sat down. 
 
 "I really don't know. I haven't noticed." 
 
 "Look!" she said fiercely. "Look, look! Your work, 
 your hideous work has made you forget what day this is!" 
 
 She held the cigarette-case up to his face, where he 
 could see engraved on the outside in her own handwriting: 
 February 16, 1904, 11 p.m. 
 
 At these words he dropped his cigarette-case tingling 
 to the floor. 
 
 "Eleven p.m.," he echoed. "Yes. Twenty minutes 
 more," he said, looking at his watch. 
 
 "It's our anniversary ! "she cried, a flash of indignation 
 in her voice; "and that's how you treat me! Our anni- 
 versary! And you speak as though you were going to 
 face death. And you had forgotten it till now! Oh, 
 Richard, Richard, no wonder when you are spending your 
 life investigating the details of other women's lives, no 
 wonder you forget about me. Go to the glass, and look 
 what it has brought you to. You are a worn and haggard 
 man. Look at yourself. And you have forgotten our 
 anniversary! I've been thinking of it for days and days. 
 But I didn't insult you by reminding you of it. I thought 
 you would prepare some surprise for me. But, do you 
 know, when I saw you this morning I almost hoped you 
 wouldn't; indeed, I sincerely hoped you wouldn't. And 
 as this is our anniversary, our sacred day, I thought I
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 301 
 
 should like to see how you were spending it, and I went 
 down to the Law Courts and I saw " 
 
 Suddenly he sprang up. 
 
 "If you love me, not a word, Gwen, my darling; you 
 don't understand. You've got to do something for me 
 now." His voice was imperious. "Go to the piano and 
 play me music Bach, Chopin, Beethoven, any of that 
 sort of music that's the sort of thing I want anything 
 soft and soothing. Play me soft, soothing music for ten 
 minutes. Ten minutes by the clock; not a moment long- 
 er." 
 
 She protested in amazement: 
 
 "You're all nerves." 
 
 He stretched out his hand to the piano. 
 
 "Do as I tell you or I'll leave the house. I will leave 
 it for ever. I will leave you altogether. My God, do 
 as I tell you!" 
 
 And she did as as he told her. 
 
 He lay at full length on the sofa, his eyes closed. 
 She threw occasional glances at him, and fancied that 
 he slept. 
 
 Suddenly she ceased. 
 
 "I think it is ten minutes now." 
 
 Again he looked at his watch. 
 
 He rose quickly. "I must go." 
 
 "You will leave me like that? Oh, no, you can't do 
 that on our anniversary! Oh, no, Richard, you can't 
 leave me! Wilfred won't be home before twelve at the 
 earliest." 
 
 He looked at her, and then deliberately put on his coat 
 and picked up his hat. 
 
 "What have I done ?" she pleaded. 
 
 " Nothing darling." 
 
 "Aren't you going to kiss me?"
 
 302 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Instantly his arm stretched towards her. But he with- 
 drew it. 
 
 "No," he answered, "I can't kiss you to-night. I 
 would give all the world to kiss you to-night, but I can't 
 kiss you to-night." 
 
 In an agony of apprehension she rushed towards him. 
 
 "What have you got in your coat?" 
 
 With a swift movement he had reached the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE CRY IN THE NIGHT 
 
 PRECISELY at eleven o'clock Richard stood in the porch 
 of Billy's house in Tilney Street. The street was deserted. 
 In the distance, he could hear the steps of a constable. 
 The houses on the opposite side of the way were shrouded 
 in darkness. 
 
 He placed the key in the door and opened it. Then he 
 closed the door silently. He listened for any sound in 
 the house, but all was still. 
 
 He walked across the tesselated pavement of the entrance 
 hall on to the carpet. Within half a minute, he had turned 
 the handle of the study and closed the door. 
 
 Seated at a desk facing the window, he saw Billy's 
 back. The figure made no move. 
 
 "Billy," he said. 
 
 The man rose with a quick, startled movement. His 
 face was hideous, grotesque, terrible. His complexion 
 was mottled and flabby. His eyes appeared to have been 
 driven into his head by pulpy adiposity. The mouth 
 drooped at the corners the shoulders slouched forward; 
 it seemed as though the frame had lost the power of 
 supporting the body. Billy had always been vulgar. 
 To-night, in his frock-coat, he appeared like a workman, 
 say a carpenter, in his Sunday clothes, entirely out of 
 place in a room furnished with bourgeois luxury, saddle- 
 bag upholstery, and imitation Sheraton work. 
 
 Richard stood at the door, a lean figure. An avenger, 
 in Billy's eyes.
 
 304 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 With a pitiable effort he moved towards his brother-in- 
 law and held out a limp hand. 
 
 Richard did not take it. 
 
 In a voice that he hardly recognised, so husky and un- 
 certain was it, Billy said: 
 
 "What's the meaning of all this?" 
 
 Richard, with his hands deep down in his pockets, 
 stood towering above him. 
 
 "Sit down!" 
 
 The other man was on the point of protesting, but his 
 eyes met Richard's, and then they fell. 
 
 "Sit down," he repeated. He was surprised that Billy 
 obeyed him. 
 
 He sat down _n a large arm-chair, and stretched out a 
 shaking hand towards a half-empty carafe of whisky in 
 the tantalus on the table. 
 
 Richard's hand shot out. 
 
 "Wait! Not yet." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " The tremulous voice was out 
 of harmony with the violence of the question. 
 
 "Have your servants gone to bed ?" 
 
 "The parlourmaid is downstairs. The doctor and 
 the nurse are with Ethel. It may happen at any mo- 
 ment." 
 
 "No one knows I am here ?" 
 
 "No, why the devil are you here? Can't you behave 
 like a human being? Can't you sit down ?" 
 
 "Billy, I'm going to behave very much like a human 
 being." 
 
 "Speak out, speak out. I can't bear this." His collar 
 was soaked with perspiration. He was perspiring at 
 every pore; his face and hands were shining. 
 
 Richard moved across the hearth-rug, and stood in 
 front of him.
 
 THE CRY IN THE NIGHT 305 
 
 "Can't you speak?" cried Billy. "What the devil's 
 the meaning of all this mystery?" 
 
 Slowly Richard spoke. He could hear the ticking of 
 the clock through his words. 
 
 " To-morrow morning there will be a warrant issued for 
 your arrest!" 
 
 Billy's eyes blinked. His hands fell by the sides of the 
 arm-chair. Richard could see that his lips were framing 
 the words "For my arrest?" But no sound came. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 No answer came from the lips. The eyes blinked 
 horribly. He was a mass of inert consternation. At last 
 he spoke one word, "Do ?" 
 
 Furious at his futile terror, Richard shook him by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Yes, do! What are you going to do? You've allowed 
 Ethel to face the shame here. What are you going to do ? " 
 
 Suddenly, the fat head fell back on the top of the chair. 
 The body heaved. "Do? Oh, my God, do! What the 
 devil can I do?" 
 
 And this was the man this wreck devoid of purpose, 
 caught in the meshes of his own crime who had married 
 his sister. Richard felt that he could have battered out 
 his brains with something cold that he held tightly 
 clenched in his pocket. 
 
 Slowly the head moved forward, a hand moved out to- 
 wards the tantalus. 
 
 Richard struck it down viciously, angrily. 
 
 The blow brought the crushed man to some sense of 
 his position. With eyes peering slyly at Richard, he 
 whispered : 
 
 "Can't I get away?" 
 
 " Get away ?" sneered the other. "Getaway? Where 
 on God's earth can you go ? T'hey would have you back
 
 306 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 from anywhere. You coward! You cur! That's your 
 first thought, is it? To save your skin! To leave Ethel, 
 and your child to bear the ignominy of it all!" 
 
 In spite of his determination to keep calm, fury had him 
 in its grip. 
 
 "Why the devil didn't you send Ethel away to some 
 place where she wouldn't hear just at this moment?" 
 
 He sighed a weary sigh of hopeless despair. 
 
 "I had no money. I haven't any money at all. It's 
 all gone; every penny. I'm in debt all round. Besides, 
 I was afraid, I was afraid. There came a time when I 
 knew it must happen. And I wanted Ethel. I love 
 Ethel." 
 
 Then his head fell forward and buried itself in the fat 
 hands. His body shook. He was crying, crying, and 
 his agony shook his whole frame. 
 
 But for him there was no mercy. 
 
 Richard put his hand on his shoulder and shook him. 
 
 "There's no time for that. You've got to think. 
 You've got to decide what you'll do. I am going to 
 decide what you'll do." 
 
 Then he turned on Richard. 
 
 "You are not my judge." 
 
 "I am not your judge," came the cold answer. "But 
 I know what your sentence will be. I have seen the papers 
 in the case and your sentence will be ten years. " 
 
 The pink in his face had faded to yellow as Billy sank 
 back into a chair. 
 
 "Ten years! Oh, my God, my God, I can't go through 
 it! I'm not strong! I'm not strong! Ten years behind 
 prison bars ! Ten years without Ethel ! I can't go through 
 it. I can't." 
 
 Then he rose suddenly. 
 
 "Richard, with your influence, you can do something
 
 THE CRY IN THE NIGHT 307 
 
 for me. You're my brother-in-law. Can't you go to the 
 Treasury? Can't you do something?" 
 
 "I can do nothing," answered Richard. 
 
 " Yes, but look at the scandal ! You must do something. 
 If I get away, you can use your influence. You are a 
 great power. You can see that I am not brought back." 
 
 "There are only two places from which you can't be 
 brought back. " 
 
 "What are they?" cried Billy, a gleam of hope lighting 
 up his face. 
 
 "Heaven and Hell." 
 
 The two men were standing face to face. The one, cold 
 and merciless, who was passing the death sentence upon a 
 shivering criminal; the other, a broken, hopeless man. 
 
 "Haven't you enough courage to do the right thing?" 
 
 Billy fell back in the chair, huddled and cowering. 
 
 "No, no, no! I can't, I can't!" 
 
 "Have you the courage," asked Richard, "to stand up 
 in the Old Bailey and receive a sentence that is worse than 
 Hell ? To suffer for years and years the torture of the soul 
 and of the body? To know that while you are eating 
 prison bread, associating with only the outcasts of the 
 world, your wife and your child are also through your 
 doing outcasts from the world. If you were found dead 
 here, their honour would be saved. One minute's courage, 
 one minute's pain would save you years of the most hope- 
 less sorrow, the most terrible agony. I'm not here to ad- 
 vise you. I'm here to tell you what to do." 
 
 Purple tinges had sprung out on the wretched man's face. 
 The puffiness under the eyes was outlined with deep black. 
 
 "I can't! I can't!" he moaned. 
 
 "I will look after my sister and my sister's child. You 
 need have no fear upon that score."
 
 308 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Is there no hope?" he gasped. 
 
 "If there were any hope, I should be here to give it you. 
 There is no hope." 
 
 "But I have nothing here. I have nothing with which 
 I could" 
 
 "I've thought of that," answered Richard. 
 
 From his pocket he drew forth a revolver, cold and 
 glittering. 
 
 "Another man took his life with this. The other man 
 died to save his honour. You will die to save the honour 
 of three people." 
 
 Billy stared at him with stony eyes. He took his hand- 
 kerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from his 
 hands. 
 
 "What is your answer?" Richard asked, putting the re- 
 volver on the table. 
 
 Billy took it in his right hand, the fingers of his left 
 passed slowly along the barrel. He seemed scarcely to 
 notice what he was doing, and then, with a movement 
 almost of terror, he put it back on the table. 
 
 "What is your answer?" thundered Richard. 
 
 Billy's head was supported on the palm of one hand. 
 Richard noticed that he was getting very bald, that the 
 skull glistened through the greasy hair. 
 
 "I'll do it," he said, in a quivering whisper. 
 
 Then he raised his head and looked Richard in the 
 face. 
 
 Richard interrupted the query. 
 
 With his fingers, he gently touched Billy's right tem- 
 ple. 
 
 The doomed man nodded: 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "I shall go into the hall," said Richard. "Directly I
 
 THE CRY IN THE NIGHT 309 
 
 am out of the room, you will lock the door. Yes, the key 
 is in the door. Here is the latchkey you sent me. When I 
 have heard the shot fired, I shall leave the house. Not be- 
 fore. Remember, I'm waiting." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 Billy stretched out his hand and poured out half a tum- 
 blerful of brandy. 
 
 Richard stopped him: 
 
 "That'll be enough." 
 
 He took up the cut glass bottles of brandy and whisky 
 and emptied their contents on the floor. Then he held out 
 his hand. 
 
 Billy gulped down the brandy half of it. He stared 
 at Richard. His eyes sparkled. 
 
 "No, no. Not that. I've always hated you, and I 
 hate you now. You needn't be afraid of my courage. It 
 won't fail me." 
 
 Then Richard walked to the door. 
 
 The key was turned on the inside. There was silence 
 in the house. The grandfather's clock in the hall struck 
 a quarter to twelve with the chimes that brought good 
 cheer to Whittington. "Turn again, Whittington, " they 
 said. He listened. "Turn again, Whittington, Lord 
 Mayor of London." He compelled his mind to listen to 
 the chimes. Twice they had struck. 
 
 Suddenly a dull report. He had never thought that 
 
 a revolver-shot sounded like that. Then the thud of a 
 
 falling body on the floor. "Turn again, Whittington." 
 
 Then silence. Silence complete, terrible, cold as 
 
 the grave. 
 
 He heard a rattle in his own throat. Limp, almost 
 at the end of his forces, he staggered to the front door 
 and closed it clumsily yet silently. Out into the night
 
 310 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 air he went precipitately from the house. With long 
 strides he crossed the street. Then he looked up at the 
 house. There were lights in the windows above the draw- 
 ing-room floor. 
 
 In the stillness of the night a woman's shriek, a shriek 
 poignant of agony, came from those windows.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE REVOLVER 
 
 THE suicide of Billy occurred unhappily at a moment 
 when there was dearth of news. Therefore the papers 
 devoted to it an amount of attention out of all proportion 
 to its importance. 
 
 Greatly to the annoyance of Richard, in many journals 
 the deceased was spoken of as "Mr. William Brinstable, 
 brother-in-law of Mr. Cliftonville, the eminent actor, 
 and Mr. Richard Meyville, the well-known barrister." 
 
 On this matter Richard had an interview with his 
 brother at the theatre during a matinee. He spoke hotly 
 to him between the acts while Montague was nervously 
 adding dabs of make-up to his face. 
 
 "You don't seem to understand, Montague, that all 
 advertisement is not good advertisement. Upon' my 
 soul, I don't think that you have any sense of the fitness 
 of things at all." 
 
 "What? How?" asked the other. 
 
 "You heard what I said." 
 
 "Yes, and I think my dresser heard too. It is not 
 respectful to talk to me in the way you do." 
 
 "My dear Montague," answered Richard, "I've 
 never pretended to respect you. I don't think that you 
 respect yourself." 
 
 "What? How?" 
 
 "No man who had any respect for himself would 
 deliberately arrange to be advertised by means of his 
 brother-in-law's disgrace."
 
 312 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "So it was disgraceful, was it?" 
 
 "It was disgraceful. Billy had muddled his affairs 
 terribly and Ethel is left without a penny. Thank God, 
 she's all right doing well. The girl is a healthy infant. 
 Ethel doesn't know that she's a widow. She will not be 
 told just yet. I attended the inquest this morning." 
 
 "Yes," answered Montague. "I saw by the papers 
 that you were there. I ought to have gone, perhaps. 
 Yes, I certainly ought to have gone." 
 
 Richard saw what was passing through the actor's 
 mind. Had he attended the inquest, the papers would 
 have mentioned the fact. 
 
 In supreme contempt for his brother's insane love of 
 publicity, he said : 
 
 "I believe, Montague, that you would consider it a 
 good advertisement to be tried for murder." 
 
 Montague took him seriously. 
 
 "My God, yes! What a thing that would be, eh? 
 provided one was acquitted. Even if one only got the 
 benefit of the doubt it would be a splendid advertise- 
 ment." 
 
 Richard could hardly control his disgust. In a cold 
 voice he said: 
 
 "Of course, as you are the elder brother, it is your 
 privilege to look after Ethel." 
 
 Montague gazed up at him with eyes of horror. 
 
 Richard smiled. 
 
 "It is your privilege, of course. But as your benevo- 
 lence could not possibly be alluded to in the papers, I 
 doubt whether it would be worth your while. I will be 
 responsible for her future." 
 
 "Yes; perhaps you had better. You have more time." 
 
 Richard's statement as to his intentions with regard 
 to Ethel had been so welcome to him that he had not
 
 THE REVOLVER 313 
 
 troubled to resent the allusion to his fondness for adver- 
 tisement. 
 
 "Everything she has," said Richard, "will go. The 
 brokers are in the house already." 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear, how awful! This must be kept 
 out of the papers; absolutely out of the papers. Damn 
 it!" he cried indignantly, flinging down the stick of 
 grease paint and dabbing some powder on his cheek, 
 "if it gets about that my sister has the brokers in her 
 house, it may interfere with my knighthood." 
 
 Richard, out of devilry, enquired: 
 
 "How would it be for you to buy the brokers out?" 
 
 He made no direct answer, but stood up, and striking 
 an attitude of wonderful beauty and grace, said: 
 
 "Richard, I'll tell you what I'll do. If my new piece 
 is a success it's the finest part that I have ever had, I'm 
 on the stage for the whole of the third act I'll go halves 
 with you in whatever you do for Ethel." 
 
 And he held out a dramatic hand to seal the lavish 
 bargain. 
 
 At that moment the call-boy's voice was heard: 
 
 "Mr. Cliftonville, if you please." 
 
 And the eminent actor hurried off. 
 
 Richard, on returning to the Temple, instantly saw 
 from John's face that something was amiss. The clerk 
 ga/ed mysteriously at him, and followed him into his 
 room. 
 
 "I suppose, sir, you'll be able to keep appointments 
 for this afternoon ? There are three consultations." 
 
 "Certainly. You've got the Bill of Exchange case 
 taken out of the list ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Counsel on the other side were quite willing 
 under the circumstances. I think the inquest went off 
 very well, considering."
 
 314 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "How do you mean 'considering'? What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 John had been in attendance upon Richard before the 
 coroner. 
 
 "Well, sir, of course it was a case of suicide; a deliber- 
 ate case. But sometimes these juries are not willing to 
 add 'While of unsound mind.' ' 
 
 "Still," said Richard, "Dr. Braxton-Drewe knows 
 his business." 
 
 "Nobody better, sir." 
 
 Why, thought Richard, didn't the man go away ? Why 
 did he stand staring at him with curious eyes ? Why 
 had he ventured to suggest it wasn't a case of suicide ? 
 
 Uneasily shuffling his feet, while he rubbed his fat 
 chin with his hand, John said : 
 
 "The coroner's officer is an old friend of mine. I've 
 known him for many years. And he showed me the 
 revolver that Mr. Brinstable shot himself with." 
 
 Richard darted a glance at the clerk. 
 
 Moseley, now immovable, stared at him. Each knew 
 what was passing in the other's mind. It was clear to 
 Richard that John knew of his share in the death of 
 Billy. John knew that Richard was aware of his know- 
 ledge. 
 
 "That will do, John," said Richard sharply. 
 
 When the door had closed, he threw himself back in 
 his chair and summed up the situation. 
 
 "He knows," he reflected, "that I took the revolver to 
 Billy. He recognized the revolver. He knows that I 
 compelled Billy to shoot himself. He knows that, in 
 point of law, I am an accessory before the fact; that, 
 technically, I am guilty of murder." 
 
 He laughed. There was hysterical cynicism in his 
 laughter.
 
 THE REVOLVER 315 
 
 "Good heavens! I am liable to be hanged by the 
 neck until I am dead! And the Lord may be requested 
 to have mercy on my soul. And a chubby, red-faced 
 parson might be called upon to say 'Amen.' Good 
 heavens! This is a slice out of the comedy of life! I 
 shall go down to the Old Bailey to defend the French 
 Jewess, when ray place is really in the dock. What 
 infernal nonsense the law is! I'm a murderer; that's 
 what I am, technically a murderer." 
 
 He cast a contemptuous glance upon the volumes in 
 his bookcases. 
 
 "The solution of the whole thing is that each man 
 must be a law to himself. There is only one tribunal by 
 which we can be tried justly, and that is the tribunal of 
 our own hearts." 
 
 He went up to the mantelpiece and looked into the glass : 
 
 "I'm looking devilish old, but I'm not guilty." 
 
 He stretched out his face closer to the mirror. 
 
 "I may not be good-looking, but I'm a good sort. 
 It's a strange thing," he thought, "that perhaps the only 
 really good action of my life is, in point of law, a crime." 
 
 He attached no great importance to Moseley's know- 
 ledge of his share in the matter of Billy's death. Moseley 
 was a man of sound sense and great discretion. Still, he 
 was now completely in Moseley's hands. 
 
 Owing to Billy's suicide, nothing more was heard of 
 the proposed prosecution of "A. B." The general 
 belief born of the affair was that Billy, on seeing bank- 
 ruptcy staring him in the face, as the result of rash specu- 
 lations, had committed suicide, to save his honour, for 
 the sake of his wife and child. 
 
 Everyone expressed deep sympathy for Ethel. But 
 everyone remembered all the weak points in Billy. 
 
 As soon as she was well enough to leave London,
 
 316 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Richard sent her, with his mother, to Bexhill. His own 
 solicitor undertook the winding up of Billy's affairs which 
 were, of course, in a hopeless condition. Nothing could 
 be saved from the wreck. 
 
 The additional encumbrances imposed upon him 
 induced him to work, if possible, even harder than before. 
 He was obliged to spend at his chambers much of the 
 time that he had previously devoted to Gwendolen. 
 Much to her annoyance, he became, to her thinking, a 
 mere automaton. Sometimes three days would pass 
 wherein she did not see him. And John firmly dis- 
 couraged all telephonic communication. Often, how- 
 ever, at two or three in the morning, she from her bed, 
 would telephone to him, in his bed. 
 
 They would have long talks in the silence of the night. 
 Talks that from the circumstances in which they were 
 placed, gave to each other almost a physical pleasure. 
 But in this pleasure there was also an element of physical 
 pain. It seemed to her intolerable that here w r as a man 
 whose voice she could hear, whose body she could picture, 
 lying alone in his solitary flat, whilst she, a miracle of soft, 
 white beauty and fluffy silk, was longing to stretch out 
 her arms to bind him to her. 
 
 Sometimes she would suddenly ring off abruptly with 
 the cry: 
 
 "Oh, my darling, I can't bear it. You are killing me!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE*' 
 
 THE sudden death of "Jack" Bishop, the leader of 
 the Parliamentary Bar, created a sensation among the 
 practitioners at Westminster. For many years this 
 genial man had been making anything between 35,000 
 and 40,000 a year. Now a large amount of work would 
 be thrown, so to speak, upon the market. Richard, 
 of course, would not profit thereby, except, perhaps, 
 indirectly. But the leading K. C's who practised before 
 the committees expected very considerable additions 
 to their incomes. 
 
 One morning, two days after the great man's death, 
 John, with a glow of pleasure on his face, came into 
 Richard's chambers in Parliament Street. 
 
 "The managing clerk of the solicitors to the Great 
 Southern Railway has just been here, sir. He says 
 that if you will take silk he will give you all the legal 
 business of the Great Southern. That will mean at 
 least 5,000 a year." 
 
 This, indeed, was brilliant news. 
 
 "You must take silk at once, sir. You must write to 
 the Lord Chancellor to-day." 
 
 The taking of silk is always a hazardous step, but 
 with a guarantee of 5,000 from one railway company 
 alone it would have been ridiculous for Richard to hesitate. 
 Besides, John drew a rose-coloured picture of the future. 
 Once established as leading counsel for the Great Southern,
 
 318 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 he would get an enormous amount of other work. He 
 stood to lose nothing; he was bound to gain. 
 
 The one feature that marred his delight at the news 
 was the fact that it seemed to him obvious that the offer 
 had been inspired by Lashbridge. He knew that ener- 
 getic and versatile peer took considerable interest in 
 railway affairs. He. was no dummy chairman. It was 
 impossible for Richard to blind his eyes to the fact that 
 the offer had come from his rival. Still, so advantageous 
 was the offer that it would be impossible for him to neg- 
 lect any step towards its acceptance. 
 
 Immediately he wrote to the Chancellor and to all the 
 seniors on his circuit. 
 
 Within two days came a formal acknowledgment of 
 his letter. 
 
 Then a fortnight passed without further news. Every 
 morning John enquired as to the matter. It seemed to 
 the clerk strange that a man so obviously entitled to the 
 honour should not have instantly received it. 
 
 One day, when Richard happened to be conducting 
 a case before Tufnell, he received at the luncheon ad- 
 journment a note from the judge, asking him to come 
 and see him in his private room. 
 
 He found him in his red and black robes, his wig off, 
 occupied in devouring a steak. 
 
 At the barrister's entrance he did not desist from his 
 meal. But between huge mouthfuls he merely said: 
 
 "I hear from the Chancellor that you've applied for 
 silk. You won't get it!" 
 
 Richard exclaimed in surprise: 
 
 "Won't get it?" 
 
 "The Chancellor is an extraordinary man. You 
 remember well, perhaps it was before your time, but, 
 anyway, you must have heard how a shady financier,
 
 THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE" S19 
 
 an Irishman, a man called Vincent Skrene, made violent 
 love to his wife. That was just before he became Attor- 
 ney-General." 
 
 Richard was on the point of asking what bearing the 
 Chancellor's private affairs had upon his application, 
 when the judge shot a piercing glance at him. "There's 
 not the slightest chance. Have you the slightest chance ? 
 You haven't." 
 
 Then Richard understood. 
 
 "You're between the devil and the deep sea," said 
 Tufnell. "If you throw over the woman, you're a 
 cur; if you don't, you'll remain a junior to the end of 
 your days. Is there any way out ? No, of course there 
 isn't." 
 
 All the colour had sunk out of Richard's face. 
 
 His obvious distress touched the kindly heart of the 
 raw-boned man. He would have gladly given Richard 
 shrewd advice. But in spite of his vast experience of 
 men, of women, of character and passion, for the life of 
 him he didn't know what advice to give. 
 
 For a minute or two he ate hard, like a famished eagle. 
 Richard, standing by his side, gazed, fascinated, at the 
 aquiline profile, at the mottled claw-like hands as they 
 plied noisily with the knife and fork. 
 
 "If you like to listen, listen. If you don't, you can 
 go away I thought you'd gone. You haven't. 
 Listen or not, as you like. Give it up. That's my 
 advice. Give her up. Never mind about being a cur. 
 You've got a lot before you" here he had trouble with 
 a tough piece of meat "or you've nothing; a big future, 
 or drab dulness and damnation; and you'll deserve 
 it." 
 
 He seemed to be soliloquising as he ate his food. 
 
 Yet Richard listened, spellbound.
 
 320 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 He felt that the man was, in his strange way, giving 
 him advice of vital value. 
 
 "You're in love with her. She's in love with you. 
 She's married. You're not married to her. You're 
 both wrong 'uns; that's the expression. It's a beastly 
 expression. But it serves for people who are doing a 
 beastly thing. Don't let me keep you." 
 
 Richard stood still. 
 
 "You can stand that?" The judge did not look 
 up. 
 
 "Any answer? Any defence? No, of course not. 
 How could there be?" 
 
 There was in the old man some mysterious power 
 that compelled silence. Something even that struck 
 terror into the young man. He felt that he was not being 
 addressed by a mere friend, an ordinary man whom one 
 might meet at dinner, but by a judge in a semi-official 
 capacity by a judge who rarely erred in his decisions, 
 a judge who had sent more prisoners to the gallows than 
 any other man of our time, but who had sent no one 
 wrongly to his doom. It was Tufnell who had tried 
 Prinpski, one of the leading Jewish criminals of the last 
 century. In spite of the fact that all the Polish Jews 
 in England had moved heaven and earth and purses 
 to secure the reprieve of their compatriot, Tufnell had 
 been firm, and declined, even at the Home Secretary's 
 request, to admit there could be any doubt in the matter 
 and Prinpski had confessed his guilt upon the scaffold. 
 
 This stern man, with his vast knowledge of men and 
 life, had condescended to take an interest in his future. 
 
 In his heart he felt that the judge was right. 
 
 Tufnell continued. 
 
 Though in his demeanour there was nothing to show 
 that he felt any degree of nervousness in accomplishing
 
 THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE" 321 
 
 his task, in very truth he felt horribly afraid lest he should 
 bungle it. Therefore he took refuge in generalities. 
 
 "I am no more moral than anybody else. An enor- 
 mous amount of nonsense is talked about morality. As 
 a matter of fact, it is a new invention with the upper 
 classes. It was discovered in the reign of Queen Victoria, 
 and it has not had much chance to become popular yet. 
 Was society moral in the days of the Tudors or the Stuarts 
 or the Hanoverians ? Who has ever said it was?" 
 
 Here he flashed a hostile glance at Richard. 
 
 "But you are not the Court. You are not society. 
 Also the days of Bohemian barristers are over. A bar- 
 rister must lead a decent life. What do you want to ape 
 the immorality of your betters for? That is the curse 
 of the country in our time the immorality of the middle 
 classes. Now that corruption is spreading downwards, 
 and has become a habit of the million instead of a fashion 
 confined to the wealthy or well-bred, the next genera- 
 tion will have the deuce to pay." 
 
 The judge paused and hesitated. Then came a softer 
 note in his voice as he spoke. 
 
 "Richard," he had never called him by his Christian 
 name before "you are the next generation. I was at 
 Cambridge with your father. I was senior to him. But 
 he is responsible for all this. He was the vainest man I 
 ever met. Of course, your brother has got the full eldest 
 son's inheritance. But you are touched with it, Richard. 
 Falling in love with another man's wife is often the result 
 of vanity rather than well, of anything else." 
 
 " But you said " 
 
 Stern at the symptom of opposition, Tufnell glared at 
 him. 
 
 "Yes," he interposed, in a deep voice, "I said you were 
 a wrong 'un, and I stick to it. And the strange thing is
 
 322 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 that you don't know it. And I warrant that you and she 
 believe that you are hero and heroine in some poetical 
 drama. But you're not. And," he repeated, shaking 
 his head, "you're wrong 'uns, that's what you are wrong 
 'uns." 
 
 Very simply Richard said: 
 
 "I am in love with her." 
 
 Tufnell stared keenly at him for a second. But the 
 keenness of his eyes was counterbalanced by the softening 
 of his lips. Then he went on eating. 
 
 "Come here," he said brusquely, as he poured some 
 Worcester sauce over the mass of potato on his plate. 
 He looked up, and held out his hand, gripping 
 Richard's. 
 
 "Do the right thing, whatever it is. Do I know what 
 the right thing is in an affair of this sort ? No, I'm damned 
 if I do! But you'll do it. Good luck! I'm going to sum 
 up against you in this case. You haven't a leg to stand on. 
 But you've done it very well." 
 
 There was nothing more to be said, and the young 
 barrister went out of the room in a state bordering on 
 physical collapse. 
 
 John was his partner in the matter. He was the partner 
 in his forensic life. How could he possibly go to him and 
 say: "You've set my feet on the high road to fortune. 
 You've financed me. And now, because I'm in love with 
 a woman, my career must be stopped when I'm in the full 
 tide of prosperity." How could he say that? 
 
 Limp and lifeless was his speech after lunch. All the 
 strength had gone out of him. He was oppressed by the 
 terrible weight of his dilemma. There seemed to be no 
 possible course open but to go to Mrs. Ainslie and say: 
 
 " I love you more than I have ever loved you before. In 
 the days of despair and sorrow you comforted me. I am
 
 THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE" 323 
 
 now on the high road to wealth and fame, and I must travel 
 alone." 
 
 No decent man could say that to a woman. Even if he 
 didn't love her, such a statement would be impossible. 
 But he loved her passionately. He worshipped her. He 
 was intimate with all the secrets of her soul. Were she 
 out of his life, he would be emasculated, since she meant 
 all womanhood to him. To give up her body; to abandon 
 his worship at that white satin shrine. Never more to 
 know the perfume of her fragrant flesh No, no! That 
 would be suicide. 
 
 Side by side in his brain were the case for his client and 
 these reflections as he spoke. Tufnell gazed at him with 
 piercing eyes. He understood the terrible struggle in the 
 young man's heart. 
 
 Almost unknowingly the summing-up, which he had in- 
 tended to be dead against Richard, became more or less a 
 compliment to the distraught counsel's intellectual powers, 
 and the jury found in Richard's favour. 
 
 "God bless my soul!" said the K. C. on the other side, 
 "you do have the most extraordinary luck, Meyville! Do 
 you know what it is to lose a case ?" 
 
 Richard's thoughts were far away. It is doubtful 
 whether he actually answered in words the question of the 
 "silk." But his heart framed the reply. "I know what 
 it is to lose everything." 
 
 After two days of misery and two nights of pain he select- 
 ed his course. 
 
 So obvious was the course before him that, cruel, pitiful, 
 and agonising though it would be, it took him an almost in- 
 credibly short space of time to see that he must say good- 
 bye to her. The sooner the better. Having schooled his 
 mind to this decision, it seemed to him that he must com- 
 municate it to her instantly.
 
 324 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Without deciding in what manner this terrible blow 
 terrible for him and terrible for her should fall, he rang 
 her up on the telephone. 
 
 "Can I see you any time this afternoon?" 
 
 He had been fortunate in catching her as she was on the 
 point of going out. She would be in at dinner. Would 
 he come then at 8 o'clock? 
 
 He hesitated. He would prefer to walk into her drawing- 
 room in the afternoon, to state suddenly his determination, 
 and then to leave the house. The idea of sitting through 
 dinner with her, and then telling her afterwards, seemed to 
 him an unnecessary and cruel accentuation of pain. 
 
 But his hesitation had told her that he was disengaged. 
 
 "Come to dinner at eight," she said. "Wilfred is not 
 well. He is keeping to his room." 
 
 Therefore at eight it was that he arrived at Green Street. 
 
 Obviously Gwendolen had dressed with extraordinary 
 care to please him. 
 
 As she greeted him in a black dress that fitted her figure 
 to perfection, he attempted, clumsily, no doubt, to make 
 a mental picture of her appearance, a picture that would 
 haunt him till his death. He would say good-bye to her 
 in that dress of black. Perhaps he would never kiss her 
 lips again. He hesitated to kiss them now. But she, in 
 her overwhelming joy at his arrival, noticed only that his 
 face was set in hard lines. 
 
 "Wilfred is in a fearful state," she said. "He's taken 
 to lying in bed all one day, and then going out in any sort 
 of weather all the next." 
 
 "What a man!" 
 
 "He wants you to go up after dinner and talk," she add- 
 ed. " If it wasn't such an old story now, yours and mine 
 if Wilfred and I had ever been seriously married I sim- 
 ply couldn't bear it Wilfred's fondness for you."
 
 THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE" 325 
 
 She had ordered for him an exquisite dinner. She was 
 full of news, of trivial, amusing anecdotes which she rattled 
 off. The hard expression of his face seemed to her not 
 altogether unbecoming in a successful barrister. Grave 
 and austere though he appeared to her, she knew that as 
 a lover he was passionate, and that in his passion there was 
 no trace of austerity, but with greedy hands he plucked 
 the best fruits of love. Therefore the contrast of his ex- 
 pression and his temperament gave her a subtle, secret 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Such a funny thing happened to-day," she said, when 
 the footman had left the room, and Richard was smoking 
 a cigar. "You noticed that Thomas waited on us ? Well, 
 Younghusband has gone." 
 
 "Gone?" 
 
 "Yes; he came to me this morning you know his 
 strange little stupid face and gave notice. Wanted to 
 leave at the end of the month. I asked why. He hummed 
 and hawed, and at last blurted out" and she mimicked 
 the manner of that long, lean man "You know, madam, 
 I was mixed up or, rather, I gave evidence in Lord 
 Plymborough's divorce case, and it doesn't do a butler 
 in my position any good to be constantly appearing 
 if one may say so in the Divorce Court.' I could 
 scarcely believe my ears. 'What do you mean?' I 
 asked. 'Well,' he said, 'it's very awkward for me to 
 explain, but from things I've noticed I shouldn't be 
 at all surprised if there's a divorce case here.' The man 
 spoke quite respectfully. Really, I was very much amused 
 in spite of his impertinence. Of course, I thought he 
 was alluding to you. But he wasn't! He was alluding 
 to Lashbridge! Then, really, I became indignant. I 
 ordered him out of the house then and there. The man 
 is a complete ass. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!"
 
 326 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 She jumped up from her seat and threw her arms 
 round him. 
 
 "Fancy thinking of Lashbridge when he's seen my 
 own King of Cats!" 
 
 There was no help for it. He could not tell her what 
 was in his mind. For an instant the cowardly course of 
 writing to her suggested itself. With her arms around 
 him, with her soft cheek nestling against his, how was he 
 possibly to tell her that he would never see her again ? 
 He searched his soul. 
 
 Could he, could he possibly say to her, "I am never 
 going to see you again. Our love, though it is not at 
 an end, though it burns fiercer than ever, is never hence- 
 forward to have any outlet. I am going into a meta- 
 phorical monastery"? How could he keep his word? 
 There would surely be moments, burning moments, when 
 uncontrollable desire would throw him headlong at her 
 feet. He did not until now realise what it was that he 
 had decided to deny himself. Though intoxicated by 
 the perfume of her flesh, by the pressure of her curves 
 upon his body, he was a weak, purposeless man. 
 
 "I'm going up to see Wilfred," he said suddenly. 
 
 "All right, dear. Not more than ten minutes, please. 
 Don't let him keep you," she pleaded. "I want you, 
 oh, so much to-night." 
 
 In an ecstasy of anticipation she waited for him. 
 
 Wilfred lay in bed, inert yet eager. His lean face 
 seemed yellow against the pillow. His eyes, through 
 gold-rimmed spectacles, shone brightly. To hear him, 
 he was grievously ill, worse than he had ever been. He 
 pointed to the tray from which he had eaten, in his own 
 words, an unusually big dinner. He explained that he 
 had eaten it with infinite speed, as that was the only 
 way he could eat now, but that the food he consumed
 
 THE HINT OF THE "HANGING JUDGE" 327 
 
 owing to various structural complications which he had 
 lately detected could not by any possibility nourish him. 
 He was devising a system of nourishment by means of 
 patent foods and various medicaments. He intended, 
 as soon as he was well enough, to eat an ounce of food 
 every three-quarters of an hour. At his side were various 
 books of a scientific character, by the assistance of which 
 he had evolved this system. Proudly he pointed to the 
 bottles on the washhand stand. They were all sorts 
 and sizes. "That's what keeps me alive," he said; 
 "there are fifteen bottles there, and I could not do with 
 one less." 
 
 Richard looked at them. Some were labelled "Poi- 
 son." 
 
 "When, if ever, your body gets into the condition 
 that mine is in now, you'll find that poisons are the only 
 thing that do any good. I've taken enough poisons at 
 different times to kill an army. But if I were to eat a 
 rump steak it would be instant death, absolutely instant 
 death, Richard." 
 
 "Would it, indeed?" 
 
 "It would," he answered, almost proudly. And thus 
 he rattled on, mainly about his ailments. He compli- 
 mented himself upon his continued existence. He at- 
 tacked the medical profession. It was all very absurd. 
 Still, the society of Wilfred seemed to Richard preferable 
 to that terrible interview which was imminent with Gwen- 
 dolen. 
 
 When he had been in the room twenty minutes he heard 
 her voice calling his name. 
 
 "Quite right," said Wilfred. "You know she's right 
 in many things. I ought not to talk. Talking fatigues 
 me." 
 
 "Yes?" said Richard with an ironical smile.
 
 328 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "I ought never to talk at least, not more than four 
 or five hours a day. I'm quite sure that I ought not to 
 talk. Certainly not after meals. In fact, I'm not sure 
 but that all talking between meals is wrong." 
 
 To humour him, Richard replied: 
 
 "I've no doubt it is. But it would be curious if bar- 
 risters only addressed the Court while eating their dinner." 
 
 Wilfred did not approve of this flippancy. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, "I'm very tired? Turn 
 out the light, will you ? I think I shall go to sleep. " 
 
 "Good-night, Wilfred." 
 
 "Good-night, Richard."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIH 
 
 RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN 
 
 As he walked down the stairs in sight of the folding 
 white doors that opened into the drawing-room, he felt 
 a sharp catch at his heart. Silently his feet fell on the 
 thick red carpet. Nearer and nearer he came to the 
 two heavily-gilded door-knobs of the great white doors. 
 He would place his hand on one of them. He would open 
 the door. Instantly he would tell Gwendolen, brutally, 
 but with a brutality which, from her point of view, would 
 eventually seem kind, that all was at an end. 
 
 Even when his hand was on the door-knob he hesitated. 
 
 He felt a coward, a mean, despicable coward. Not 
 only was he seized with a feeling of loathing for his action, 
 but with deep pity for himself. With his own hand he 
 had cut his heart from his body. 
 
 His lips were hungering for her love. Yet he was now 
 to lie to her about that love itself. 
 
 One door was ajar. Slowly he pushed it forward. 
 
 With his long, swinging walk he strode across the 
 parquet floor to where she was sitting on the sofa. 
 
 A look of radiant pleasure shot up to greet him. A 
 white hand drew him to her side. But he stood erect 
 above her, feeling in his heart infinitely small. 
 
 "Gwendolen," he said and, for all the effort he made, 
 there was a tremor in his voice "Gwendolen, I'm going 
 to tell you something horrible, something despicable. 
 In spite of everything that you've done for me, in spite 
 of the love for" and here he spoke with a genuine note
 
 330 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 in his voice "the very deep affection I have for you, 
 things between us must come to an end." 
 
 He spoke, staring far ahead of him, his eyes avoiding 
 hers. 
 
 She threw down the evening paper petulantly. 
 
 "My dear Richard, I don't think that's funny. Your 
 experience of the Law Courts has warped your sense of 
 humour." 
 
 "I'm not joking!" he cried. Still he refrained from 
 meeting her eyes. In an instant horror struck at her 
 soul. She saw the graven face of the man, the averted 
 aspect, the tightly clenched hands. A chill passed through 
 her. He was speaking, obviously if not from his heart, 
 at any rate from his mind. What the situation was she 
 by no means understood. But she was in the presence 
 of a man who had come to tell her a hideous determination. 
 This was the man whom she had loved. This was her 
 man of men, the man essential to her being. And he 
 was telling her this astounding thing! It was not credible. 
 But the waves of agony that passed over his face, as he 
 stood silent by her side, proved to her that she was par- 
 ticipating in a tragedy a tragedy for him and for her. 
 
 As she gazed at his face, it seemed to her that this stern 
 man with the large shoulders and the heavy, aggressive 
 chin was a different person from the Richard, the kindly, 
 caressing Richard to whom she had given the gold cigarette 
 case on which was commemorated the happiest event 
 in her life. 
 
 Some terrible change had come over this strong man. 
 She felt that strong though he was, stern though he was, 
 by the nature of the circumstances he stood at a disad- 
 vantage. If she knew anything of him and she knew 
 much he was heartily ashamed of the words he spoke. 
 
 Now she nerved herself to fight. She was to fight for
 
 RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN 331 
 
 his heart; she was to fight for her happiness. And she 
 was fighting against him. Let him move. For a full 
 minute she gazed at him with tight-shut lips. She tried 
 by the power of her eyes to draw his face towards her. 
 
 But he stared ahead, right to the end of the room. 
 
 "Well?" she said at length, with sharp pain in her 
 voice. She had not intended to speak, but the tension 
 was more than she could bear. 
 
 "Well?" she repeated. 
 
 With a familiar action that she had so often admired, 
 for it showed off to the greatest advantage his strenuous 
 figure, he raised his right hand and slowly stroked his 
 head. He was nerving himself for a great effort. 
 
 "I have ceased to love you," he said. 
 
 A peal of laughter was her answer. 
 
 "Richard, this is almost the first lie I think it is 
 quite the first lie that you have ever told me! There 
 are certain things that should not be lied about. Our 
 love is sacred at any rate, to me." 
 
 Pouting, as with irritation, she threw herself on a 
 sofa. 
 
 "I've grown tired," he answered, in a tone that he 
 intended to be convincing, malevolent, base. 
 
 Then ashamed of so futile and feeble a lie, he rattled 
 on: 
 
 "My dear, you have always been far too good for me. 
 I have always worshipped you, as you know. And I 
 thought I should be happy with you. Of course, we are 
 happy together. But now I have discovered that I am 
 miserably your inferior. I'm a mean, selfish hound. 
 Let us go our different ways." 
 
 "We have no different ways," she answered in amaze- 
 ment, not knowing whether she was playing farce or 
 tragedy, but fearing, fearing. "You and I "
 
 332 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Then with a supreme effort, feeling that the ground 
 was slipping away from him, that she saw that he was 
 lying, he told her a greater, a more dastardly lie. 
 
 "I am in love with another woman." 
 
 Now here was sheer folly. She knew perfectly well 
 that no man had ever gone to a woman and broken off 
 a liaison in this fashion. The man always conceals the 
 new love from the old. It is the duty of the old love to 
 find out that she has been supplanted, and to bring the 
 accusation against the lover. Enormously ridiculous 
 though it was, it seemed to her an additional proof that 
 she still reigned in his heart. He had heightened her 
 anxiety with an unknown factor. 
 
 Why was he telling these preposterous lies ? 
 
 Suddenly she rose from the sofa. 
 
 With a swift movement she pulled from his waistcoat 
 pocket the gold cigarette case on which was engraved in 
 her own handwriting the hour and the day that she first 
 became his. 
 
 Quite calmly she said as she looked at the engraving: 
 
 "What a wonderfully long time ago it seems! Well, 
 well," she added, as she threw it on the pink satin sofa, 
 "you've no further use for it." 
 
 In an instant his hand was stretched out and he had 
 recovered it. 
 
 "My God, my God!" he cried. "I shall never part 
 with that." 
 
 Then she stood up to him, face to face, gazing up at 
 him. 
 
 "I am at a disadvantage, Richard. Sit down. Let 
 me talk to you. Sit down!" she commanded. 
 
 There was something imperious in the lithe figure. 
 
 He threw himself on the sofa. 
 
 "You've told me lies to-night, Richard. I don't
 
 RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN 333 
 
 deserve that you should tell me lies. You are not my 
 judge. I am not your judge." She was surprised at 
 the calmness with which she spoke. "We are, as you've 
 often said, partners. It's a disgraceful thing to lie to a 
 partner. I saw you in the Law Courts do a disgraceful 
 thing. I saw you callously as there is a God in heaven 
 whose laws override what you call evidence do a dis- 
 graceful thing a horrible thing. You don't respect a 
 woman because she is a woman. You don't give her 
 justice because she is a woman. But you shall give me 
 justice, here and now because I am your partner. Don't 
 treat me as a woman even as a woman whom you love. 
 Love implies indissoluble friendship. But that you don't 
 seem to understand. Treat me as you would treat a 
 man who is honourable. Behave honourably. Now, 
 tell me the truth. What have you got to say ? But 
 remember that if you lie to me I shall know it. Now 
 speak." 
 
 "My dear Gwendolen," he said, and his hands were 
 tapping one on the other; he did not dare to meet her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Don't you speak to me like that. Haven't you the 
 courage to look me in the face?" 
 
 He raised his eyes, but only for a second. 
 
 "I can't look you in the face. I'm doing a hell of a 
 thing." 
 
 "Then," she said, "do it in your own way." Fighting 
 for her life, and fighting bitterly, she added, "You ought 
 to know how to do that sort of thing." 
 
 Anxious to hear the worst he had to say, aware that 
 the air was heavy with disaster, she almost had her hand 
 upon his throat to tear the words out of his heart. There 
 was in her face the look of the tigress fighting for her 
 young, that he had only seen once before.
 
 334 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Go on!" she said, thrusting her face towards him in 
 the silence of the night. 
 
 There was in her mind some sort of triumph at the 
 sight of this shrewd cross-examiner, this master of elo- 
 quence, cowering before her, not daring to raise his eyes 
 to her face. 
 
 At last he spoke. The greater the brute he should 
 appear to her, the more callous, the more contemptible, 
 the less cruel he felt would be the blow to her. Quite 
 deliberately he said: 
 
 "My love for you is fatal to my career. I'm going to 
 give you up!" 
 
 He could hear the rustle of her skirts as she staggered 
 back. A little stifled cry of despair came from her lips. 
 That was all. 
 
 The silence was intolerable. He hesitated, to look up. 
 
 At last he raised his eyes, and then he saw the ruin he 
 had wrought. 
 
 The woman was the epitome of hopeless pain. Her 
 eyes stared vacantly. Her hands were clasped on her 
 breast. Her whole body drooped in her despair. Her frame 
 swayed to and fro. Her eyes were closed. She was on 
 the point of fainting. 
 
 He rushed to her side. 
 
 Instantly she recovered her self-possession. 
 
 "Don't touch me! Don't dare to touch me! Because 
 you're a coward, I'm not weak." And then, with bitter 
 sarcasm, she added: "Yes, you told one truth to-night. 
 You said that you were a mean hound. You are a mean 
 hound!" 
 
 "My darling Gwendolen " 
 
 She waved his words aside. 
 
 "Stop! I want to think. I am beginning to under- 
 stand. It is a horrible thing to understand. But I am
 
 RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN 335 
 
 beginning. Yes, I begin to see. You have made my 
 body yes, my body your stepping-stone. You have 
 had what you wanted of me, all the pleasure I could 
 give, and all the help I could offer. You have found 
 that it's better to be a lawyer than to be a lover. Yes, I 
 see, Richard; lawyers are knighted, lovers are not. Oh, 
 it's no good protesting. You're just as contemptible as 
 your brother every bit." 
 
 "Gwendolen, don't be so cruel to me! You know 
 that what you are saying is unfair." 
 
 In his own mind he was surprised at her behaviour. 
 She should have been hysterical at the shock. He saw 
 that the shock had been terrible. And yet she retained 
 her self-composure. A woman who at such a moment 
 retained her self-composure could not, he tried to per- 
 suade himself, truly love. In spite of his acute knowl- 
 edge of her temperament, he did not know that, even to 
 the last, she would be a fighter; that it was not until she 
 had exhausted every weapon with which she could struggle 
 to regain him that she would lose control over her 
 brain. 
 
 "I am not unfair," she said. "I'm only looking at 
 things calmly and deliberately. Because you think, oh, 
 Richard, unwise in your generation, that it is a prudent 
 thing for you to 'chuck' is a suitable name for that 
 sort of action to 'chuck' me, it does not follow that you 
 are right. Now, answer me truly." 
 
 She spoke breathlessly, fiercely. "Answer me truly. 
 Will you be happy without me ? " 
 
 "My God, I shall be wretched without you!" 
 
 "I know I shall be wretched without you. Because 
 I have only you. You've got your work, you see. I 
 suppose that never occurred to you. You have not 
 thought of me in this calculation, have you?"
 
 336 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Thought?" He shot his head forward. "Thought, 
 my darling?" 
 
 "Oh, it's no good calling me your darling. I'm not 
 your darling. You desert me. And tell me for what, 
 pray? Be quite candid, Richard; I should like to know 
 my rival. What can I do to prevent you from flinging 
 yourself into my rival's arms?" 
 
 And then he told her, and he was very much ashamed 
 as he told her the story of how the Lord Chancellor re- 
 fused to make him a K. C. 
 
 "What a wonderful man Lashbridge is!" she said 
 reflectively. 
 
 "What the deuce has Lashbridge got to do with it?" 
 asked Richard. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, "that the puppets do not always 
 see who is pulling the strings. Doesn't it strike you as 
 somewhat curious that Lashbridge should be instrumen- 
 tal in getting you to apply for silk? Does it not seem 
 strange that the Chancellor, who refuses you silk, should 
 be a friend of Lashbridge? Perhaps you have forgotten 
 the day when we were at the Carlton and they were 
 lunching together ? " 
 
 This was a new light to Richard. It beat on his eyes 
 and made him blink. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Well?" she asked. 
 
 He knew what was in her mind. He knew the question 
 that was flying from her eyes. 
 
 "Won't you feel somewhat of a fool if Lashbridge 
 succeeds in separating you from me?" 
 
 He felt a fool. He cursed Lashbridge. But, after 
 all, that astute peer had only precipitated the climax. 
 His action was really irrelevant in the drama of his 
 life.
 
 RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN 337 
 
 She sounded the depths of what she considered his 
 villainy, his cupidity, and his cowardice. 
 
 "Don't let us mince words, Richard. Let us quite 
 understand the situation. I, for one, am entitled to un- 
 derstand it.. Do you love me as much as ever?" She 
 spoke with the calmness of despair. 
 "I love you more than ever." 
 "No other woman has come into your life?" 
 "There will never be any other woman in my life." 
 "And yet you can't wait two or three years for me?" 
 "It is absolutely vital that I become a K. C. now." 
 "And the course you propose is never to see me again ?" 
 "Never, Heaven help me, to see you again!" 
 "And it will be painful to you, Richard?" 
 "It will hurt like " He could not find a compar- 
 ison. 
 
 "And all this you will do in order to get on in your 
 profession ? In order to have more opportunities of treat- 
 ing women as you treated that poor little woman in the 
 witness-box?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders in refutation. 
 " Do you know that I'm suffering more than she ? I am 
 suffering more than I ever believed it could be given to a 
 human being to suffer. Beside the black darkness of 
 my grief, all other sorrows seem small. That little woman 
 who suffered at your hands seems to me a happy little 
 woman. And, do you know," she spoke quietly, weigh- 
 ing her words, "that one of these reasons that prevent 
 me from going mad yes, mad, Richard is that I know 
 you're doing the right thing are behaving just in the 
 way that you ought to behave that I would have ex- 
 pected you to behave. This is the result of common sense. 
 You are weighing me in the balance against your pro- 
 fession, and you are deciding against me. But do you
 
 338 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 know the sentence you are pronouncing? You are pro- 
 nouncing a sentence of death. Yes, of death," she said. 
 "I can't exist without you. Oh, I know women have 
 said this hundreds of times before! But I very much 
 doubt if any woman who has heard her doom as I have 
 heard it to-night has listened to it as calmly as I have. Of 
 course, you must understand that I feel bitterly the terrible 
 insult of what you say. I feel that all the love I have 
 wasted on you all these years has been in vain that I 
 count for nothing. Mind you, I shall think of this until 
 my death. I am a wounded, broken creature. But, 
 Richard, I am not dead yet. I know that you are not 
 worth loving. I know that no self-respecting woman 
 would love you after what you have said. But," she 
 turned rapidly, and seized him by the shoulders; there 
 was almost the strength of iron in the little fingers, "you 
 are my Richard you are my Richard!" 
 
 She sank back, staring at him. Her frame quivered, 
 and the light glittered on the moving spangles of her 
 dress. 
 
 Suddenly she stood erect. A wave, as it were, of 
 inspiration passed over her face, an expression came into 
 her eyes almost of hideous determination. 
 
 "Do you liear anything?" she said. "I think Wilfred 
 is calling me." 
 
 She went to the door. 
 
 Left alone, he sat with his eyes rivetted to the carpet. 
 
 Then, for a reason which he could never afterwards 
 explain, vaguely, purposelessly, he got up and stumbled 
 after her upstairs. 
 
 When he reached the half-open door of Wilfred's room 
 he suddenly asked himself why he had come there. He 
 scarcely remembered having climbed the stairs. He stood 
 aimlessly gazing into the room.
 
 RICHARD AND GWENDOLEN 339 
 
 On the bed lay Wilfred, his face lighted by an electric 
 lamp at his side, his mouth contorted into a wry move- 
 ment as he placed an empty glass on the bed-table. 
 
 At the distant end of the room Gwendolen replaced 
 a medicine bottle, which of the many bottles on the 
 washhand -stand her figure prevented him from seeing. 
 On her face, as she turned, was an expression that Rich- 
 ard would never forget. It was an expression in which 
 horror, determination, and something else were equally 
 depicted. 
 
 The light in that ill-omened chamber was dim. In 
 his brain, too, was dimness lit up by one lurid suspicion. 
 He did not know whether she could see him. 
 
 Somehow he made his way back to the drawing-room. 
 There he flung himself into a chair and buried his face 
 in his hands, as if to shut out a terrible sight.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE UTILITY OF DR. PLAGDEN 
 
 In the silence he listened to the ticking of the clock, 
 as he had listened to the ticking of the clock on the night 
 of Billy's death. But to-night he felt as Billy must have 
 felt ; his hands were cold and clammy. 
 
 What had happened in that room upstairs ? Had 
 anything happened at all ? Why that look of horror on 
 Gwendolen's face? Why the stealthy movement with 
 the white hand on the green bottle? 
 
 He felt sure it was a green one. 
 
 He tried to satisfy himself that she had replaced the 
 bottle on the marble slab naturally. 
 
 But there was the look of horror. 
 
 Suppose she had accidentally given him the wrong 
 medicine! Ah! If she had discovered it, by now she 
 would have roused the house. 
 
 The minutes were passing; the clock was ticking. 
 
 Again, did she know? Had she seen him as he stood 
 by the door ? 
 
 A shrewd judge of character, a man who in his profession 
 had dealt with criminals, who was familiar with the ad- 
 juncts of crime and all its details, he felt that when he 
 saw her again he would know instinctively by her features 
 what part she had played in 
 
 "Good Heavens! What a fool he was!" 
 
 He felt alarm for himself. Where had his judgment 
 gone to? What manner of man was he? On this 
 absurd evidence to jump at such a conclusion! . . . even 
 for a moment! Again and again he wiped his forehead.
 
 THE UTILITY OF DR. PLAGDEN 341 
 
 He walked to the looking-glass and examined his face. 
 It seemed to him a very evil face. It seemed to him 
 that lines of cruelty were carved on his face, that his chin 
 stuck out more aggressively than ever. 
 
 "Have I not done the woman enough harm," he said, 
 "without suspecting her of anything so grotesque as 
 this?" 
 
 At that moment he heard the rustle of her gown on the 
 stairs. 
 
 He fixed his eyes on the doors, wondering how they 
 would open, and how she would enter. 
 
 She entered with sheer terror upon her face. Her eyes 
 stared straight from under her curved eyebrows her 
 lips were white, her skin was waxen. 
 
 She stood still with her hand on the door-knob. 
 
 Though she was half the length of the room away 
 from him, though she spoke in a whisper, the sound 
 travelled directly to him. 
 
 "Wilfred is dead." 
 
 "Dead!" he echoed. 
 
 Was she going to say no more than that ? 
 
 "Wilfred is dead," she repeated. 
 
 In what manner of tone had she said those words? 
 Was this evidence of guilt or innocence ? he asked him- 
 self. Was she merely describing a horrible thing that 
 had happened ? That was all he could gather from her 
 voice. 
 
 "Here am I," he thought, "probably in the presence 
 of a murderess. It is possible that she has murdered 
 that man. If she is guilty, she will betray herself. Let 
 her speak." 
 
 He did not move towards her. He stood deliberately 
 still. 
 
 She was the actress. He was the spectator.
 
 342 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "Don't glare at me like that," she cried. "Wilfred 
 is dead. Don't you understand ? Dead in the room 
 upstairs." 
 
 In one's heart, as in one's body, it is not possible to 
 suffer two agonies at the same moment. She did not 
 love Wilfred. She hated Wilfred. Wilfred was dead. 
 
 Had he died a natural death, the effect, beyond causing 
 such slight sorrow as comes to one on the death of a con- 
 stant companion, even if that constant companion's 
 society is not a source of pleasure, must have been a 
 relief to Gwendolen. He would not expect Wilfred's 
 decease to overwhelm her with sorrow. He himself had 
 just dealt her a terrible blow, by the side of which her 
 widowhood was as nothing. Actually, Wilfred's death 
 solved the question between them provided he had 
 died a natural death. 
 
 She was staring at him wild-eyed, but she was self- 
 controlled. 
 
 When he had told her that the end of their love was at 
 hand she had possessed marvellous self-control. 
 
 From her demeanour he could gather nothing definite. 
 He could only realize the horror of her situation. 
 
 "Look here," he said abruptly. "Wilfred has had 
 no doctor." He walked towards her and stared into her 
 face. "There will have to be an inquest." 
 
 She understood what that meant. 
 
 "Must there be an inquest?" she asked. And she 
 only expressed the natural repugnance that is felt by all 
 against the desecration of the dead. 
 
 "Oh, can't you stop that? Can't you arrange that 
 there is no inquest?" 
 
 "What do you think he died of?" 
 
 "Medicine," she answered. 
 
 "What medicine?"
 
 THE UTILITY OF DR. PLAGDEN 343 
 
 "Not one particular medicine, but all the medicines. 
 He used to take an enormous number of medicines." 
 
 "What did you give him last?" 
 
 " I don't know. He pointed it out to me when I went 
 upstairs, It was something in a green bottle." 
 
 "Gwendolen, it is possible that what you gave him in 
 that green bottle killed him. I want to point out to you 
 that if there is an inquest and there must be your 
 position will be serious." 
 
 "Richard," she said, "you have sacrificed me" to your 
 profession. I suppose you have sufficient influence 
 with somebody in the right quarter I don't know what 
 the right quarter is to make an inquest unnecessary." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I can't. Did you see me looking into the room when 
 you were putting the medicine- bottle back ?" 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 "I'm not sure. I thought I saw somebody. Was it 
 you ? " 
 
 He repeated the question to himself, "I'm not sure. 
 I thought I saw somebody. Was it you?" 
 
 This answer, like all her others, was consistent with 
 innocence as well as with guilt. But if she was a guilty 
 woman, she was truly a marvellous actress. If she 
 was an innocent woman, she seemed to realise the peril 
 in which she stood. Suppose there was an inquest! 
 Suppose poison was found in his body! Suspicion would 
 point directly to Gwendolen. His own evidence would 
 be very damning to Gwendolen not altogether creditable 
 to himself. But no one knew that he was in a position 
 to give evidence. He would never give evidence. Could 
 he stand up in the witness-box at the Old Bailey and tell a 
 story that might be fatal to the woman he loved ? Fatal, 
 even though she were innocent. He shuddered. Good
 
 344. THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Heavens! What was he doing? Gwendolen was in 
 dire peril. Something must be done, here and now. 
 There must be no inquest. Guilty or innocent, she 
 should never undergo the tortures of a trial for murder. 
 But how could an inquest be avoided ? 
 
 "Quick," he said. "How many servants have you 
 in the house? What's the time?" 
 
 He looked at the clock. It was a quarter past ten. 
 
 "There are five servants in the house," she answered. 
 
 "Where do they sleep ?" 
 
 "Upstairs." 
 
 "And the footman?" 
 
 "In the basement. I told you that Younghusband 
 had gone." 
 
 Her eyes were rivetted on his lips. 
 
 He had conceived a plan. He went to the bell and 
 rang it. 
 
 "When John comes up, tell him to bring whiskey and 
 soda, and then tell him that he can go to bed. What's 
 it matter about reputations now? There are more 
 serious things in the world than the loss of a reputation." 
 
 When John entered, he found Mrs. Ainslie sitting, to 
 all appearance, calmly on the sofa, and Richard walking 
 up and down. 
 
 Gwendolen ordered the whiskey and soda. There 
 was silence till the footman returned. 
 
 Then Richard said: 
 
 "Go up and sit with your husband. Go up and sit 
 in his bedroom." 
 
 Richard went down to the library. 
 
 He went to the telephone. 
 
 "Are you Dr. Plagden? ... I am Richard Meyville. 
 . . . This is a matter of life and death. . . Something 
 quite out of your line. ... It is not what you think.
 
 THE UTILITY OF DR. PLAGDEX 345 
 
 I want you to come round to 118 Green Street. Can 
 you come now? It will take you five minutes. But 
 you must walk. ... I will be watching for you from 
 the dining-room window, and I will open the door." 
 
 In five minutes, from the darkness of the dining-room 
 he saw through the blinds the bustling figure of Dr. 
 Plagden walking rapidly along. 
 
 He stole to the front door and opened it silently. The 
 Doctor entered. In a professional manner he smiled 
 at Richard. Then he took off his hat, and placed it on 
 the sixteenth-century chest of drawers. The tall frame 
 of the barrister towered above him. He waited for 
 Richard to speak. 
 
 "Come up to the drawing-room. You can leave 
 your bag here," said Richard in a whisper. 
 
 Silently they walked up the stairs into the brilliantly- 
 lighted room. 
 
 "This is a very serious matter, Doctor Plagden. I'm 
 going to ask you a great favor. You're not running any 
 risk. I want you to understand that you're not running 
 any risk." 
 
 The quick, nervous manner in which he spoke gave 
 the lie to the words he uttered. Plagden seemed to be 
 on his guard. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Meyville," he said, rubbing his fat 
 white hands together, "I'm under a very great obligation 
 to you 
 
 Richard interposed: 
 
 "I'm aware of that. Years ago, I forget how many, 
 I defended you at Rochester Row Police Court. You 
 were then an obscure practitioner in Maida Vale. You 
 are now making many thousands a year in Grosvenor 
 Street." 
 
 The keen face of the barrister was peering down into
 
 346 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 the somewhat flabby, rubicund face of a man who looked 
 more like a successful farmer than an eminent ladies' 
 doctor. 
 
 Dr. Plagden took three steps forward, placing his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 "Really, Mr. Meyville, it is unnecessary to remind me 
 of that. Tell me what you want." 
 
 "I will tell you," was the answer, "exactly so much as 
 you need know." 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "By the bye, you don't know in whose house you are, 
 do you?" 
 
 Dr. Plagden nodded an affirmative, threw back his 
 shiny broadcloth coat, and placed his hands in his pockets 
 as though prepared for the worst. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I gathered from your telephone 
 message 
 
 Richard stopped him. 
 
 "Mr. Ainslie is dead. He is lying dead upstairs 
 
 The Doctor threw a look of surprise at him : 
 
 "Mr. Ainslie" 
 
 "Mr. Ainslie was a drug-fiend. He lived almost 
 entirely on medicines and never called in a doctor, and 
 he has dosed himself to death. The story will be this: 
 His wife went to see him shortly after ten to-night, and 
 found him dying, as she thought. I telephoned you to 
 come round, and you were present at his death. Is there 
 anything the matter with that?" 
 
 "That's all right. It would be all right," answered 
 Plagden, "if it were any other doctor but myself. You 
 know I'm a very unusual sort of person to call in for a 
 dying man." 
 
 Richard smiled . 
 
 "You can't be suspected. It's impossible, absolutely
 
 THE UTILITY OF DR. PLAGDEN 347 
 
 impossible. Mind you, I take a very keen interest in 
 this thing." 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "I understand. But you must play your part for all 
 you're worth. It must be known that you were in the 
 house. You're a prominent barrister, and 
 
 "I don't think the Treasury would take any steps. 
 You needn't worry about that." 
 
 "Yes, I think it's a good story." 
 
 "Does it break down anywhere, from your point of 
 view?" asked Richard. 
 
 "I can't say that it does," answered Plagden, after 
 reflection. Then he repeated: "The servants have all 
 gone to bed. You, as an old friend of the family, have 
 telephoned to me because I'm the nearest doctor you 
 know. You in your anxiety wait for me at the door. 
 Yes. I understand." 
 
 "Anything else, Doctor?" 
 
 "Ring up the servants. Tell them their master is 
 very ill." 
 
 "Now we will go upstairs," said Richard. 
 
 He opened Wilfred's bedroom door, and found Gwen- 
 dolen sitting by the bed, her face resting on her palms, 
 her elbows on the foot of the bed. She was staring, 
 not at the dead man, but at a photograph of Richard 
 on the mantelpiece.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GABRIELLE LEVI 
 
 DAY dawned on Richard lying prostrate on his sofa in 
 Hay Hill; his eyes, encircled with deep brown lines, 
 glared at the rays of light creeping through the blinds. 
 Hour after hour he had spent reconstructing the scene in 
 Wilfred's bedroom. 
 
 In his mind he had no doubt as to Gwendolen's guilt. 
 
 She had murdered her husband. 
 
 Deliberately, though on the spur of the moment, she 
 had administered poison to him. What that poison was 
 would never be known. 
 
 Owing to his influence over Plagden, an inquest would 
 be avoided. 
 
 What did Plagden think of the matter ? Plagden could 
 know nothing, for certain. Plagden might suspect. 
 Plagden could not know. 
 
 Assume that Wilfred had died from poison. He 
 was in the habit of taking poison. Gwendolen might 
 have given him innocently an overdose. He felt that 
 it would be useless for him to interview the doctor on the 
 subject. Whatever his view was, it would not be con- 
 clusive to Richard. And as to Gwendolen! To her he 
 could put no question. 
 
 In the grey dawn he understood the hideous sentence 
 he was passing upon himself. If she were wiped out from 
 his life what, in God's name, was there to live for ? What 
 did his profession matter now ? The best work that a man 
 does is always done for the sake of a woman. If it be
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GABRIELLE LEVI 349 
 
 not for a definite woman, it is done in the hope that 
 some day that work will win for him the ideal of his 
 heart. Richard had found his ideal. Hacl his ideal blood- 
 stained hands? 
 
 He rose wearily from the sofa, and walked languidly 
 to the mantelpiece. 
 
 His watch had stopped. It was eight o'clock. Then 
 he fell back into the arm-chair. 
 
 There his man found him shortly afterwards. 
 
 He was awakened by the scared face of the servant 
 and a husky whisper: 
 
 "Oh, sir, I thought you were dead!" 
 
 There was no answer in the blank eyes. 
 
 "Can I get you anything, sir?" 
 
 "What's the time?" 
 
 "Getting on for half-past eight, sir." 
 
 "Get me a brandy and soda, half brandy and half 
 soda. What day of the week is it?" Without waiting 
 for a reply, he said, "I've got to do something to-day. 
 I've got some work on to-day, haven't I?" 
 
 "I don't know, sir," answered the startled man. "I 
 suppose you've got to go down to the Temple, as usual, 
 if you're well enough, but 
 
 "Do you know, Andrews, " said Richard, raising him- 
 self and gripping the arms of his chair, "my memory 
 seems to have gone." 
 
 "You're looking very ill, sir." 
 
 Now Andrews, who had been in the service of many 
 brilliant young men, had considerable experience of the 
 results of dissipation. But in spite of the fact that ap- 
 pearances were terribly against Richard, his servant saw 
 that his prostration was the result of a terrible disaster. 
 
 Suddenly Richard sprang at him. 
 
 "Andrews," he said, "you're a man of the world.
 
 350 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 If you were in love with a woman, and she murdered 
 her husband, quick say would you marry her?" 
 
 Andrews shrank back. Was his master mad, he asked 
 himself ? There was a glitter in his eyes that was scarcely 
 sane. 
 
 Andrews temporised. 
 
 "I can't very well imagine myself being in love with 
 a married lady, sir. But if I was in love with a married 
 lady and she murdered her husband, well, I don't know, 
 sir, what I should do." 
 
 Richard threw himself back in the chair: 
 
 "God, what a fool I am!" he said. "I'm talking 
 nonsense. " 
 
 "Yes, sir," assented Andrews. 
 
 But he seemed interested in the strange problem pro- 
 pounded by his master. 
 
 "There are many people who naturally would not 
 like to marry a woman who had murdered her first 
 husband. But, I think, sir, the second husband would 
 be quite safe. I don't suppose that it often happens 
 that a woman murders two husbands." 
 
 "Pull up the blinds, Andrews. What the devil do 
 I look like?" 
 
 "Excuse my saying so, sir, but you're looking very 
 ill, and you certainly do, if you'll excuse me saying so, 
 sir, act uncommon queer." Suddenly he said: "Aren't 
 you defending the French murderess at the Old Bailey 
 to-day, sir?" 
 
 "Good heavens! Am I? I seem to have forgotten 
 everything that happened before last night." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I know you are, now I come to think of it. 
 There is a picture of you alongside of the woman in this 
 morning's Mirror. The Mirror is my paper you know, 
 sir," he explained.
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GABRIELLE LEVI 351 
 
 "Quick, get me that brandy." 
 
 When Andrews had gone, he went to the mirror. 
 
 "I'm ghastly pale, and I'm dog-tired. I haven't a 
 muscle in my legs. How the devil am I to talk to a 
 jury to-day?" 
 
 And yet, at 10.30 that morning would begin a tragic 
 struggle for life and death. He was in no fit state to 
 appear for Gabrielle Levi, and his junior was entirely 
 incapable of performing that uphill task. No doubt, 
 John could arrange with Kemble, who was prosecuting, 
 to have the case adjourned. But how could he remain 
 that entire day alone in his flat? He couldn't face his 
 own thoughts. If he could go down to the Old Bailey, 
 and talk and talk until he died that would be a fitting 
 termination to his career. If he could have died as he 
 stood looking through half-closed eyes at his reflection, 
 he would have desired that death. 
 
 When Andrews returned, he took the brandy and soda 
 from the tray. 
 
 It revived him, and shortly afterwards he staggered to 
 the bathroom. He cut himself, shaving. His hands were 
 trembling and damp. He felt that he was on the verge 
 of a fever. Then he jumped into a cab and drove to a 
 hairdresser's in Bond Street, where he was properly shaved 
 and shampooed. Then he thought he would walk to 
 the Temple. But he was too nervous to walk. Again 
 he got into a cab and drove down. 
 
 He found John in his room. 
 
 John stared at him, without concealing his alarm. 
 
 "Something has happened, sir," he said instantly. He 
 did not make the error of assuming that Richard was ill. 
 "What is it, sir?" 
 
 But Richard did not answer. 
 
 "It isn't Mrs. " But he got no further.
 
 352 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 John made a great effort. 
 
 "It's all over the Temple, sir, that the Chancellor has 
 refused you silk because of 
 
 "Go on," said Richard, in a dry voice. 
 
 "Because of Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 "Mr. Ainslie," answered Richard, "is dead." 
 
 The tone prohibited further conversation. 
 
 There were fifteen questions on the tip of John's tongue, 
 now that he had dared to put the first. But he did not 
 venture to put one of them. 
 
 At last Richard spoke : 
 
 "I've got to defend this woman at the Old Bailey." 
 
 "You're not in a fit state, sir. I can run up to Mr. 
 Kemble's clerk and have the case adjourned." 
 
 ' You'll do nothing of the sort. I'll defend the woman, 
 if I die for it." 
 
 He felt that if he threw himself at the storm and stress 
 of the great fight, he would find in this well-nigh impossi- 
 ble task a few hours' oblivion from his agony. He would 
 like to toil at that case until his strength was exhausted; 
 until sleep or death, or drink or morphia came. 
 
 "I must do this case," he said. "I don't think I shall 
 do it very well. I've got to do it, John. And, my God!" 
 he thundered, "I will do it well!" 
 
 He rose. 
 
 "He will look worse with his wig on, " reflected the clerk, 
 as they strode out together into Essex Court. 
 
 In the cold, crisp morning air they walked along 
 Fleet Street. 
 
 Suddenly Richard went into a newspaper shop and, to 
 his clerk's surprise, purchased a copy of the Daily Mirror. 
 
 "She is rather pretty," he said absent-mindedly, as 
 he left the paper on the counter.
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GABRIELLE LEVI 353 
 
 "Who is, sir?" inquired John in surprise. 
 
 "Gabrielle Levi," he answered. "Murderesses," he 
 added, "are nearly always pretty. I suppose the most 
 beautiful women are always bad." 
 
 " If you ask me, sir, and mind you I have been par- 
 ticularly fortunate in my own experience, all women are 
 wrong 'uns, wrong 'uns; wrong from A to Z." 
 
 "I suppose they are, "replied Richard grimly. "Now 
 we will get into a cab." 
 
 At the Old Bailey, he threw all his energy into the 
 defence of the murderess. He fought for her as he would 
 have fought for Gwendolen. He was aggressive, even 
 unmannerly. He turned on Kemble and rent him. Every 
 now and then the little barrister sitting next to him peered 
 at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. "What the 
 dickens is the matter with Meyville?" he asked himself. 
 
 He himself had opened for the prosecution, asking only 
 for a verdict of manslaughter. It had been a kindly. 
 judicial opening. And yet Richard had alluded to it in* 
 his cross-examination as violent and unfair. 
 
 Little Kemble was puzzled. 
 
 "Why should he take such a vast and apparently person- 
 al interest in the defendant?" 
 
 There were few witnesses to call; the case was in a nut- 
 shell. Kemble had whispered to Richard: "Are you go- 
 ing to put the prisoner in the box?" 
 
 Richard had cursed him; had told him to mind his 
 own business. 
 
 "Very well," Kemble had answered. 
 
 Richard's speech, a masterpiece of eloquence, of furious, 
 impassioned pleading, astounded the court. He had been 
 able to extract little evidence of a favourable nature from 
 the witnesses for the prosecution. But these molehills he 
 made into mountains. He explained to the iury the vast
 
 354 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 responsibility he took upon his shoulders by not placing 
 the prisoner in the box. He told them he gladly took 
 that responsibility, that had he placed her in the witness- 
 box he would have her death upon his conscience. "Here 
 was a woman," he said, "a stranger, being tried for her 
 life. She had been in prison for weeks. The man she loved, 
 the hideous monster whom she loved, who had lived upon 
 her shame, was dead. After the agony of these weeks in 
 prison, in what condition was she to stand up in that box 
 and fight against the wits of the most brilliant cross-ex- 
 aminer at the English Bar? What chance had she, a 
 Frenchwoman, speaking English but little, what chance 
 had she against a man like Kemble? "Why," he cried, 
 "If I myself were accused of murder, do you think that 
 I, even with my knowledge of the law, such as it is, after 
 weeks of terrible anguish, would be in a fit state to fight 
 against the merciless acumen of my learned friend ? The 
 whole of his brilliant career he has devoted to the study 
 of the weaknesses of people on trial. I should be a criminal 
 did I allow Gabrielle Levi to place herself at the mercy of 
 that ruthless bra ; n." 
 
 On and on he went, gradually confusing the issue until 
 it appeared to the mystified jury that it was the Prisoners' 
 Evidence Act that was on its trial and not the woman in 
 the dock. By his eloquence, he reduced her to tears. 
 A fine-looking woman, with a square white face and huge 
 pathetic eyes, she sobbed at the burning words that came 
 from his lips. 
 
 Suddenly the judge interrupted. 
 
 "Gabrielle," he said. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, my lord." 
 
 "I only reminded you that the prisoner's name is 
 Gabrielle. Several times you have called her Gwen- 
 dolen."
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GABRIELLE LEVI 355 
 
 A sudden change came over Richard. He stood for 
 a moment erect, seeking speech. Then his eyes vaguely 
 wandered to the dock. 
 
 Two or three times he began to speak: 
 
 "My lord my lord" 
 
 Then his frame shook. He had come to the end of 
 his speech, but he could not end it. There was nothing 
 more to say, except to add the peroration, but practically 
 his whole speech had been peroration. 
 
 The last time he said "My lord," his voice, through 
 dry lips, was scarcely audible. 
 
 Kemble rose to support him. But he was too late. 
 His gaunt body fell heavily forward across the desk. 
 
 t $ . 4> 
 
 When he recovered consciousness in the robing-room, 
 he asked the doctor bending over him what was the 
 verdict. 
 
 "Not guilty on all counts." 
 
 Then he swooned again.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE FUNERAL 
 
 OBVIOUSLY Richard must attend the funeral. Wilfred 
 had been an old friend of his, and although he had racked 
 his brain for reasons that might excuse his attendance, 
 a certain insuperable instinct compelled him to go to 
 Green Street. 
 
 The demeanour of Gwendolen would be of great 
 importance. By her manner he felt that he would be 
 able to arrive at a sure conclusion with regard to her 
 innocence or guilt in the matter of her husband's death. 
 Although he had in his own mind decided that Wilfred's 
 death had been due to her, yet a certain craving possessed 
 him to see her in a moment of extraordinary difficulty. 
 
 Guilty she was beyond doubt. But how would she 
 wear her air of innocence? 
 
 In the drawing-room he found Mrs. Paxton-Pryce, 
 various relatives, complete strangers to him, and Lash- 
 bridge. In the middle of a sympathetic crowd was 
 Gwendolen. Instantly on that fair face he believed 
 that he saw an ideal representation of Remorse fleeing 
 from Crime. 
 
 Her black-clad figure rose to meet him. 
 
 He had a presentiment that when he gripped her hand 
 the touch of it would prove beyond all possibility of 
 speculation her guilt. 
 
 But the touch proved nothing. 
 
 She had changed in no degree. If she were a murderess 
 now, she had always been a murderess. If ever she had
 
 THE FUNERAL 357 
 
 been a white-souled woman, she was a white-souled 
 woman now. 
 
 The women, who had come by way of questioning 
 her, were talking nonsense; they were talking nonsense 
 in the house of tragedy. A grief that is a grief is a topic 
 too sacred for words. A smile of cynicism flitted over 
 his drawn lips. 
 
 "These women are sympathising with a woman because 
 she has effected her purpose," he thought. 
 
 Lashbridge laid a hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "What did you say to her?" he asked. 
 
 "I didn't say anything. What could I say?" 
 
 Then, putting the question directly to the other: 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 "I congratulated her." 
 
 "On what, may I ask?" inquired Richard. 
 
 "She understood." 
 
 "I don't understand," he said coldly. 
 
 Lashbridge drew him aside. 
 
 "I suppose you're going to marry her, aren't you?" 
 
 "What the devil has that to do with you?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing," he answered smiling. "Since 
 you ask so pointedly, it has nothing to do with me. 
 But it has a great deal to do with you. You're in a deuced 
 bad temper. And, by gad! you're looking devilish ill." 
 
 "Telling a man that he's looking ill never makes him 
 feel any better," replied the other. 
 
 "Do you know, Richard, that I think you're paying 
 a very big price for your success. Every success is 
 bought at a huge price. But you're paying more than 
 you need. A year ago you were a young-looking man; 
 you were in love, you were happy, and you had a future 
 before you. Now you've got your future, and you look as 
 old as a judge and nothing ever looks as old as a judge."
 
 358 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Suddenly he added: "Mrs. Paxton-Pryce is a very 
 unpleasant woman. She takes rather an interest in me. 
 I think it is probably and I'm not saying this out of 
 vanity because I'm a peer. Do you know that if ever 
 it happens and, thank heavens, it happens very rarely 
 that I am introduced to a Bayswater woman I have an 
 unpleasant thrill ? And, mind you, all the Bayswater 
 people don't live in Bayswater. I've come across people 
 in Kensington, and even in Mayfair, who are pure, pure 
 Bayswater. The death of Wilfred is very sad." 
 
 Richard could not understand what if anything the 
 man was driving at. 
 
 "When will you be married? I suppose you'll wait a 
 year. I shouldn't have said 'wait' a year; but I suppose 
 you won't be married for a year?" 
 
 Richard looked earnestly at him. Then he said a 
 thing which surprised him even as the words came from 
 his lips. It seemed to him incredible that he was uttering 
 them. 
 
 "I'm not going to marry her. But I see no reason 
 why you shouldn't. I am very, very much indebted 
 to you for all your kindness to me, for all the efforts you 
 made towards helping me, and especially in the matter 
 of the Great Southern Railway." 
 
 The tone in which he spoke was so clear, so contemp- 
 tuous, that it was as a deliberate blow in Lashbridge's face. 
 It was an insult and, at the same time, a promise of 
 happiness unhoped for. The blow he scarcely resented. 
 
 "Do you seriously mean to say that you're not going 
 to marry her?" he enquired, with eager surprise. 
 
 " One does not say a thing of that sort unless one means 
 it seriously. I shall never marry Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 For some seconds the men stood looking intently at each
 
 THE FUNERAL 359 
 
 other. "Was it possible," thought Lashbridge, "that 
 the barrister meant what he said?" 
 
 Here was Gwendolen with an income of at least 
 ,20,000 a year, with her beauty intact, with her devotion 
 notorious. And Richard thrust Gwendolen aside! What 
 could there be behind this ? True, Richard was looking 
 terribly ill. He was worn and nervous. But he had 
 loved the woman for many years. He had just 
 achieved a colossal, almost unexampled triumph. He 
 was in a position to do anything at the Bar, and he was 
 doing most things. Here was a man who was strenu- 
 ously fighting his way to the high places of the world. 
 For what possible reason could he have decided not to 
 marry Gwendolen ? 
 
 Then Lashbridge did a thing that he never could have 
 anticipated a thing that he never afterwards regarded 
 as characteristic of himself. He took Richard's arm, 
 and drew him towards himself until their faces met. 
 
 "Look here," he said in a whisper, "you and I are in 
 love with the same woman. That good point is about 
 the only point we have in common. She worships you. 
 She will never care for me in that way. If I had met her 
 first, I believe I could have made her love me. But you 
 have met her, and she will love you to the end!" Tight- 
 ening his grip, he said: "You are a blackguard if you 
 don't marry her." 
 
 "You use the word 'blackguard'," said Richard. 
 "It is hardly the word to use." 
 
 Though he had complete control of his voice, and the 
 words came with such intensitythat a blow seemed bound to 
 follow, yet, as Lashbridge looked in his face, his expres- 
 sion was out of keeping with his speech. There was no 
 fire in his eyes; there was a quiver about his mouth. 
 
 "Look here!" said Richard suddenly. "I'm never
 
 360 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 going to see her after to-day. She likes you. She's a 
 woman who must be loved. She is a woman who deserves 
 well, God knows what ! She could get on well with you, 
 and she's got to be married to somebody to somebody. 
 Qui a aim6 aimera. You marry her, Lashbridge." 
 
 "You're the most extraordinary person I've ever met," 
 exclaimed the other. 
 
 "You're quite wrong there," replied Richard. "Gwen- 
 dolen is the most extraordinary person you've ever met." 
 ****** 
 
 Cold and damp and grey. 
 
 The funeral procession, almost comic in its assumption 
 of tragedy, proceeded with unconvincing dignity towards 
 Kensal Green. Lashbridge took Richard in his limou- 
 sine. In the heart of each man was the same question: 
 "What is Gwendolen thinking about?" 
 
 Richard pictured her silent in calm dignity sitting 
 motionless by her mother's side. 
 
 Lashbridge, completely mystified by the situation, 
 hoped against hope that she was giving him a single 
 thought. 
 
 Slowly the black snake of woe turned into Westbourne 
 Terrace from the Bayswater Road. 
 
 Gwendolen, in very truth, was in a delirium of happi- 
 ness. It gave her almost acute pleasure to notice any 
 sign of joy on the face of a passer-by. But on that 
 grim, dark day traces of merriment were indeed hard to 
 find. She only saw pinched faces and blue lips. It was 
 a day of death; the living seemed moribund. In front 
 of a house with a bright red door were a man and his 
 wife, who had returned from their ride in the Park. He, 
 a military, good-looking man, was laughing into the eyes 
 of a- handsome woman full of' life. "There, indeed, is 
 happiness!" she said to herself. And then there floated
 
 THE FUNERAL 361 
 
 before her mind the faces of Richard and herself. Some 
 day they, too, would return from the Park in the morning, 
 aglow with the pleasure of the ride. And just in this 
 way he would look into her eyes. How proud would she 
 be of his admiration! How proud she would be to be 
 admired by so strong a man! That man who, by the 
 power of his eloquence, could snatch the guilty from the 
 jaws of death; that strong, grim man, tender only to 
 her only to her. 
 
 A smile flitted about her lips. Nothing could come 
 between them. She had devoted her life to him. Ever 
 since she had met him she had done all in her power for 
 him. 
 
 And now she looked confidently forward to her reward. 
 She thought nothing of the stark, cold man lying in the 
 hearse in front of her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 ILLNESS 
 
 ON the evening of that day Gwendolen was alone in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Seated in front of the fire, she felt no sense of warmth. 
 It seemed to her as though the windows were open and 
 that a cold breath passed to her bones. With a quivering 
 hand she poked the fire. Suddenly she felt a curious 
 shiver, more like ice than any sensation she had felt 
 before. It seemed as though a piece of ice had been 
 dropped down the back of her dress. 
 
 It dawned upon her that she had got a chill when 
 standing by her husband's grave. 
 
 What a fool she had been to go! Why had she ever 
 gone to the funeral ? Yet she was satisfied in her own 
 mind that she should have gone to it. 
 
 It was half-past nine. 
 
 She rang for tea. But it did not warm her shivering 
 body, unnaturally cold. It struck her that a good night's 
 rest might put her right. 
 
 But there was no good night's rest for her. She slept 
 uneasily for half-hours at a time, and woke unrefreshed 
 in the morning. 
 
 Leah, assiduous and conciliatory, dressed her with 
 attentions that were more irksome than neglect. 
 
 Throughout the morning there was a dull, aching 
 pain in her right side. She had a presentiment of coming 
 illness. The presentiment oppressed her, though she 
 tried to convince herself that she was only suffering from 
 a trifling chill.
 
 ILLNESS 363 
 
 Woarily enough she received that afternoon a visit 
 from her solicitor. But it was beyond her power to 
 take any interest in his statements. She gathered only, 
 and without the slightest feeling of pleasure, that, finan- 
 cially, everything was extremely well with her. 
 
 Early that night she went to bed. 
 
 Leah, in the morning, urged her to send for a doctor. 
 But she, a woman who had never been seriously ill, 
 had such confidence in her physical strength that she 
 felt determined to thrust off the black terror that pos- 
 sessed her. 
 
 Leah, conscious that she was giving good advice, 
 chided her mistress almost pettishly for her refusal. 
 
 Most of the next day she spent lying on the sofa 
 in intense discomfort. Every hour or so she tele- 
 phoned to Richard, but she never got nearer to him than 
 John. 
 
 The unfailing answer always was: 
 
 "Mr. Meyville is out." 
 
 "Will you tell him that I'm very ill, and that I want 
 him to come and see me at once?" 
 
 "I will give him your message, madam." 
 
 But somehow she had little confidence in John. She 
 knew he was hostile. 
 
 At half-past six she rang up again. 
 
 This time the clerk answered that Mr. Meyville had 
 gone. 
 
 Then she rang him up at Hay Hill, and his manservant 
 replied that he was dining out, dressing at his club. 
 
 She thought it all very curious. 
 
 She tried to read, but could not. 
 
 Why didn't Richard come? His Jbehaviour was mon- 
 strous. 
 
 She walked to the mirror and looked at herself. Her
 
 364, THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 eyes were very bright, and her face seemed rather drawn 
 and pale. She looked terribly ill, she thought. And yet 
 the pain she suffered was not such as to warrant that 
 strange glitter in her eyes, that pallor of her cheeks. 
 But the act of walking was anguish. Six times at least 
 she rang up Richard from her bed that night. 
 
 Sudden horror seized her as she realised that he must 
 have deliberately taken off the receiver; that he intended 
 to cut himself off from communication with her. She 
 started up in bed with staring eyes and met the horror 
 of the idea. 
 
 Soaked with perspiration, she lay back on her pillow, 
 and great sobs shook her frame for a period that seemed 
 hours, leaving her limp and exhausted. She lay with 
 her face buried in her hands, her body convulsively 
 pressing upon the sheets. He had forsaken her after 
 all she had done. It was the cruelty of a coward. He 
 didn't dare to say that he had forsaken her; he simply 
 cut her out of his life. 
 
 She would dress and go to his rooms. She would 
 dress at once. What was the time ? It was five o'clock. 
 
 And still the aching continued. It seemed that her 
 bones, shivering and rasping, were struggling to get 
 away from the flesh. 
 
 Five o'clock! Good heavens! She must wait hours 
 before she could get up ! Would she be able to get up ? 
 How if she were dying? At the thought she remained 
 still and frightened. Would the day never come? This 
 was not death. This and she faced the fact was the 
 beginning of fearful suffering. A horrible illness was 
 threatening her. She turned on the light and faced the 
 situation. It was vital for her to be well now. In fury 
 she beat the pillow with b^r clenched hands. Of all
 
 ILLNESS 365 
 
 moments in her life this was the least suitable for an 
 illii* 
 
 "Richard, Richard!" she cried, "come to me!" 
 
 There was he, no distance off, in bed asleep. 
 
 AVhy couldn't she communicate with him ? The tele- 
 phone, that had so often brought them together, seemed 
 now to place them further apart. Fiercely she rang at 
 the machine. But the same answer came back, "We 
 can't make them hear, madam." 
 
 Then, maddened by the recollection of many delir- 
 ious conversations with him, of words of love, words of 
 passion, words of exquisite intimacy that had reached 
 her in that bed, the tears came. But tears brought no 
 relief. She scarcely knew that she was crying. But she 
 knew that she was in terrible agony. A peculiar sharp 
 and gnawing pain held her in its grip. 
 
 At eight o'clock Leah, inquisitively kind, brought her 
 a cup of tea. 
 
 "Madame," she said firmly, "must see a doctor im- 
 mediately." 
 
 "Yes, yes," she answered. "But who?" For years 
 she had not seen a doctor. Suddenly the thought of 
 Doctor Onslowe-Bond occurred to her, the family doctor 
 of the Paxton-Pryces. Yes, she would see Onslowe-Bond. 
 She telephoned to him, and waited in a kind of dull and 
 patient anxiety for his arrival. 
 
 At ten o'clock he came, a man of military appearance, 
 with a black moustache and a bald head. He looked 
 more like a major than a medical man. 
 
 Earnestly and with accuracy and restraint, wonderful 
 in a woman, she described her symptoms. 
 
 He took her temperature, and she saw by the expression 
 in his eyes that he regarded her case as grave. 
 
 "Tell me exactly what's the matter?" she asked.
 
 366 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "It's a feverish chill, Gwendolen, that's all. Oh, I 
 beg your pardon," he added, a smile breaking out on 
 his face; "that takes us many years back, doesn't it?" 
 
 He wrote a prescription, and said he would return 
 later. 
 
 After two doses of the medicine her pain grew less. 
 To her thinking, the matter appeared less serious, and 
 for a few hours she was almost hopeful. 
 
 As a matter of fact, two strong doses of phenacetin 
 had reduced her temperature; but only for the time. 
 This made her fancy she was better. 
 
 When Onslowe-Bond returned in the evening he 
 seemed agreeably surprised at the improvement, called 
 her a "marvel," and said that she yielded most satis- 
 factorily to treatment. 
 
 "You'll be all right in a day or two, my dear Mrs. 
 Ainslie. I think I was a little alarmed at your temper- 
 ature when I found it so high, but it's going down nicely 
 now. " 
 
 He then gave her a few directions and left her. 
 
 The same evening the pain returned with renewed 
 intensity, and she passed a night of torture. 
 
 She was now convinced that she was worse than On- 
 slowe-Bond believed. 
 
 She passed a restless night in pain and fear. 
 
 When the doctor came next morning he took a different 
 view. He was more serious. 
 
 "Doctor," she said, "I want you to tell me exactly 
 what the matter is. You know that I don't enjoy being 
 ill. I take no Bayswater view of illness. I don't think it's 
 smart. But if I am in for an illness I want to rely on 
 you to let me know exactly what is occurring." 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear lady," he said. "I understand 
 your character; your character has not changed much
 
 ILLNESS 367 
 
 since the old 'Gwendolen ' day, has it ? You were always 
 a favourite patient of mine." 
 
 A grim smile played round her lips. 
 
 "I don't like that sort of popularity." 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he said, "you've got some slight 
 internal inflammation." 
 
 Then he gave her orders and prescriptions. 
 
 "Although you will be only laid up for a few days, you 
 must have a trained nurse." 
 
 In response to the look of alarm in her eyes, he assured 
 her that he always advised a nurse, even for the slightest 
 ailment. A nurse was so useful and such a comfort; no 
 maid could do as well as she, and she must not spend an- 
 other night alone. 
 
 "I shall come back," he said, "early this afternoon." 
 
 A few hours later he returned. 
 
 "Mrs. Ainslie, " said he, "I've brought with me Sir 
 Dibley Niall. Mind you, I daresay I'm wasting your 
 money, but that's hardly a matter for consideration. It 
 will be satisfactory for you, I am sure, to have the best 
 man." 
 
 "Oh, how right you are!" she exclaimed. "And he's 
 the best man, is he?" 
 
 "Beyond all doubt." 
 
 Niall, a benevolent old man, intensely clean, imme- 
 diately found favour in her sight. Obviously he was a 
 man of brain. Plainly, also, Bond had given him a 
 description of the patient's temperament. 
 
 The two men seemed to regard her less as an invalid 
 than as a collaborator. They tried various tests, and then 
 Niall pronounced that she was very ill, whether with 
 peritonitis or appendicitis was not yet clear. 
 
 In spite of the terror of the blow, the pale lips framed a 
 smile:
 
 3(58 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "I suppose it isn't possible that I could have both, is 
 it?" 
 
 The specialist patted her hand, and assured her that 
 it was not likely. 
 
 For some minutes they left her alone. 
 
 Then Bond returned. 
 
 She shivered at the gravity of his face. 
 
 "Whatever it is," she said, "I look to you to tell me." 
 
 Bond sat down by the side of her bed. He told her 
 the exact name of the illness. It was more dangerous 
 than appendicitis, more painful than peritonitis. So long 
 was the name that it was with difficulty the doctor re- 
 strained his professional appreciation of the word. 
 
 "Will the illness be as long as the name?" she asked. 
 
 "One can't exactly say how long, my dear Mrs. Ainslie. 
 All depends upon the constitution, nursing, and so on. 
 Cases vary." 
 
 "But it's possible to tell me the longest time it takes to 
 get through it. Mind, I'm going to get through it," she 
 said, "but I want to know the absolute worst." 
 
 He thought for a moment, and then answered: 
 
 "Five or six months. You mustn't put your foot to 
 the ground for four months. You may be in the draw- 
 ing-room by well, never mind by when. But we're 
 going to fight this, you and I. You've got your youth 
 and your strength on your side. And you may rely upon 
 me. I will do everything I can 
 
 "You're keeping something back," she said. 
 
 Slowly he spoke: 
 
 "I've known cases that were cured in six months 
 without an operation. Keep your courage up. You're 
 a plucky young woman; that I know." 
 
 She shut her eyes, and her bosom heaved. 
 
 "Thank you for telling me," she murmured.
 
 ILLNESS 369 
 
 Her heart sank. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, Richard!" she thought. She breathed 
 a desire that was almost a prayer that he would come to 
 her. Then she said: 
 
 "I realise that I have practically been sentenced to six 
 months' imprisonment. I'm not a coward, doctor; but 
 there are certain things that you know nothing about which 
 make this isolation almost unendurable. Perhaps I had 
 better tell you." 
 
 He pressed her hand reassuringly. 
 
 "I knew you when you were a child." 
 
 "I am in love madly in love! Without him it doesn't 
 matter to me whether I recover or not. I would sooner 
 die. Don't think me a fool. I'm so weak, I'm going to 
 cry. We've had some sort" the words came almost 
 unnaturally through her sobs "we've had some sort of 
 trouble, and I must see him. But I can't get him to come 
 to me." 
 
 "If he knows you're ill," said the doctor, consolingly, 
 "surely he will come!" 
 
 "You don't know him," she answered through her sobs. 
 "He's a very strange man. That's why perhaps I 
 don't know I love him! But you'll always remember, 
 when the worst comes to the worst, that I place him first, 
 that I want him ! That he is before my life. And if I get 
 very weak, and I tell you anything more about him, if 
 I ask you to rush to the Temple and bring him to me, 
 swear to me you'll do it!" 
 
 He could not resist the pleading in her eyes. 
 
 By sheer self-control the flow of tears had ceased. 
 
 "You may rely on me absolutely, of course, Gwendolen." 
 
 "Now then," she said, with a great effort, "about an 
 operation. Do you think it will be necessary?"
 
 370 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "We hope not. But it's impossible to say just yet. 
 Unless some unforeseen symptoms develop, we hope not. 
 Keep quiet. Don't worry. The nurse will be here to- 
 night. " 
 
 Then he left. 
 
 As soon as he had gone she sent Leah to Wilfred's 
 bedroom for a medical dictionary, and looked up the 
 name of her illness. It was an extremely complicated 
 malady, inflammation caused by chill. It appeared to 
 be rarely cured, except in cases when it took a form that 
 needed an operation. In these cases the illness was 
 longer, but was sometimes cured. The cases in which 
 the patients recovered without one were attributed to 
 remarkable vitality and intense care. Apparently any 
 sudden movement might be attended with the gravest 
 results. 
 
 She dropped the book on the bed, and lay for a long 
 time in a state of coma, staring at the wall. 
 
 Oh, if only Richard would come to her he would give 
 her courage! 
 
 A terrible foreboding seized her. Although she did 
 not believe that she was doomed, yet she dared not look 
 forward. For some time she remained comatose, and 
 was only aroused from her torpor by the arrival of the 
 nurse, a pretty girl of about twenty-five, who looked like 
 the advertisement of a nurse offering patent food to com- 
 plete strangers. She had an oval face and large blue 
 eyes. 
 
 It was nine o'clock, and she was not yet in uniform. 
 Apparently she had been dining out, and had not ex- 
 pected to be sent for. She brought into the sick room 
 the atmosphere of the small restaurant to which she had 
 been taken by a medical student.
 
 ILLNESS 371 
 
 She was flushed, and seemed nervous, fussy, and excited. 
 She asked Leah for a good many things, only occasionally 
 speaking to Gwendolen. 
 
 Nurse Williams then went out of the room and returned 
 dressed in her uniform, grey in colour and very becoming.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 NURSES 
 
 GWENDOLEN, in a low voice, told her what was said 
 to be the matter. 
 
 The nurse only answered: 
 
 "There, there. Don't talk, Mrs. Ainslie," and was 
 quite absent-minded; the only interest she took was that 
 of looking at her face in the mirror. Her manner was 
 marked by a complete lack of womanly sympathy and 
 interest. 
 
 During the first night by the patient's bedside she 
 answered sharply anything Gwendolen asked her. Clearly 
 she had a snappish temper. 
 
 But a great change came over her the next morning 
 when the doctors arrived. In their presence she seemed 
 full of kindness and devotion. She belonged to a type of 
 nurse that is not uncommon. Before doctors these nurses 
 are all sweetness and sympathy, and deceive them into 
 the belief that this is their normal condition when in the 
 company of their patients. Therefore it is that medical 
 men sometimes form an entirely inaccurate view of the 
 characters of the nurses they recommend. 
 
 Gwendolen's pain now was terrible. 
 
 She asked the specialist if nothing could be done to 
 relieve it. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," he said. "Any medicines that 
 reduce pain and fever for the moment would put us out 
 in our judgment. . The reduction of the pain would vary
 
 NURSES 373 
 
 the symptoms." Therefore she would have to endure it. 
 
 In a few days she found the nurse unbearable. For 
 hours she would sit admiring herself, and telling Gwendo- 
 len about her father, who, she stated, was a Colonel in the 
 Xavy, and about the lovely flowers in his garden. It 
 appeared that she was a lady who had come down in the 
 world; she told of the many offers of marriage she had 
 received and refused. Her vanity was colossal; though, 
 indeed, there was some excuse for it, as she was a really 
 pretty woman. Her prettiness was particularly galling 
 to Gwendolen in contrast to her heartlessness. 
 
 And still no word from Richard. 
 
 One day she told Onslowe-Bond that she wished to 
 see him alone, and told him that nurse Williams got on 
 her nerves. 
 
 The doctor seemed much surprised, as he considered 
 that she had such a "soothing manner;" and, indeed, 
 in his presence her manner was all that could be desired. 
 
 But Gwendolen felt that she was actually jealous of 
 her that she resented the fact that Onslowe-Bond took 
 more interest in the patient than in the nurse. 
 
 When the doctor had conveyed to her the knowledge 
 that she was antipathetic to Gwendolen, she was actually 
 rude, shrewish, and sulky; and it was indeed with relief 
 that Gwendolen heard her mutter a sullen "Good-bye." 
 
 The second nurse was, she felt immediately, a better 
 trained one, quicker and cleaner. She made less demon- 
 stration of keeping quiet, and did not say "Hush!" 
 every moment; but she had a quiet, cat-like, capable way 
 that was more comforting. She wore a blue uniform, 
 had a stumpy figure, and slight claims to good looks. 
 But she was an inveterate gossip and scandal-monger. 
 She said anything that came into her head without the 
 slightest scruple, and she also suffered from a vindictive
 
 374 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 temper. Every evening Gwendolen's temperature went 
 up to 103, and her most miserable moments were early 
 in the morning. 
 
 The nurse, sleepy and cross, was never in a good hu- 
 mour, and did all she had to do, as it were, under protest. 
 
 Her great joy and excitement as it is for most nurses 
 was the visit of the doctor, for which she made the most 
 elaborate toilet preparations after a very hurried and 
 scamped preparation of Gwendolen. 
 
 When he had gone, she generally repeated several 
 times: "He said, 'Quite right, nurse.' Fancy, he re- 
 marked how well I was looking. Who could look well 
 after being up all night ?" And so forth. 
 
 Nurse Ellis had a habit of saying, "Oh, you'll get all 
 right," at one moment, and at another assuring Gwendo- 
 len that she saw "death in her face" as soon as she came 
 in, but Gwendolen was not to tell the doctor she said so. 
 
 Towards the end of the fortnight she began to see it 
 herself. To look at her reflection in the hand-glass by 
 the side of the bed brought tears. Her eyes were almost 
 a death-warrant; her face had shrunk to nothing. It 
 was a white mask with huge eyes staring from it. 
 
 One day, which was just before the crisis she be- 
 lieved would be her last, she made her will. 
 
 To Onslowe-Bond she said: 
 
 "I want you to go down to the Temple, to Essex Court. 
 I want you to find Mr. Richard Meyville. I want 
 you to tell him that I am dying; that I can't die 
 without seeing him. You must bring him back to me 
 at once." 
 
 He promised. 
 
 In an hour's time Leah announced Dr. Onslowe-Bond. 
 
 Instantly Gwendolen raised herself on her pillow in 
 expectation. There was a dash of colour on either cheek.
 
 NURSES 375 
 
 Then when Bond entered the room, and she saw that 
 there was no one accompanying him, she sank back 
 prostrate. 
 
 "Why didn't he come? Did you see him?" 
 
 "I saw him in court. I had two words with him." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 The doctor hesitated to answer. 
 
 "I'm afraid I bring you bad news. He said he was 
 too busy." 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 "That was all." 
 
 "Did you tell him I was dying?" 
 
 "I told him you were very dangerously ill." 
 
 "And that's all he said?" 
 
 "That's all he said. But I think he felt the shock 
 very much." 
 
 "Are men," she cried, fiercely indignant, "as cruel 
 as that?" 
 
 The rest was lost in sobs and tears. 
 
 Tears stood in the eyes of the kind-hearted doctor. 
 Richard's behaviour seemed to him incredible brutal 
 to the last degree. That evening he found out his pri- 
 vate address and called upon him. 
 
 Richard rose from a sofa upon which he had been 
 lying, wan and haggard. 
 
 Dr. Bond thought he looked almost as ill as Gwen- 
 dolen. 
 
 "I quite understand your coming, Dr. Bond, and I 
 quite understand how you must regard me. But there 
 are matters which it would be idle to explain to you. 
 Tell me tell me about Mrs. Ainslie." 
 
 Bond told him that the patient was dangerously ill, 
 but that he, personally, believed she would recover. 
 
 Richard shook his head sadly.
 
 376 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Neither by word nor by look did he convey any hope 
 that she would recover. And yet he was clearly, intensely 
 anxious as to her condition. He put many questions as 
 to the way in which she suffered and the way she bore 
 her pain. 
 
 The doctor did not understand the character of this 
 eminent advocate. Beloved by a beautiful woman, ob- 
 viously in love with a beautiful woman, why, in Heaven's 
 name, was the man so cruel ? Why, if he were suffering 
 so acutely at the knowledge of her peril, why did he not 
 rush to her side? 
 
 Now Richard had just written a letter to Tufnell, 
 in which he stated that all was over between Mrs. Ainslie 
 and himself; that he would never see her again. 
 
 "Doctor," he said, "I will come to Mrs. Ainslie if 
 she is dying but only if she is dying. This is absolutely 
 final. I can explain nothing to you. Don't you see 
 what I am a complete wreck? You may guess how 
 I'm suffering. No, I don't think you can guess how I'm 
 suffering. I didn't know till now that there existed such 
 pain." 
 
 To terminate the interview, he added, in a broken 
 voice : 
 
 "Thank you thank you very much for all you are 
 doing for Gwendolen." 
 
 When the doctor had gone, Richard fell on the sofa; 
 his whole body quivered. 
 
 Gwendolen's night nurse was scarcely more conge- 
 nial than Nurse Ellis. 
 
 Nurse Stewart, a heavy, almost horse-faced, woman, 
 big of bone, heavy of movement, and wearing pince-nez, 
 spoke with a Scotch accent, a hideous, harsh, Scotch 
 accent. 
 
 She seemed to take a pleasure in irritating the patient.
 
 NURSES 377 
 
 She declined to tell Gwendolen her temperature when she 
 had taken it, having pretended to Bond that it only made 
 her nervous. Still, Gwendolen could guess it almost ex- 
 actly, having noted her sensations on those occasions 
 when she had been told it. It reached 103 every evening, 
 an exhausting condition. It was like being physically 
 mad whilst having one's mental capacity clear. The 
 nerves and pulses were out of control, but her powers of 
 thought were normal. Of course, she was not as yet 
 delirious, but the hours passed so slowly that she was 
 always asking Nurse Stewart what time it was. At last 
 she had a little clock placed where she could look at it, 
 and that was a great comfort, though before long even 
 that was placed out of her sight. 
 
 Sometimes she thought an hour had passed, and when 
 she found it was only a quarter of an hour she burst into 
 tears. She always counted the minutes until she should 
 see the doctors again, thinking that they would bring 
 her relief or encouragement. 
 
 Bond tried endless drugs to relieve her pain, but with- 
 out success. Occasionally a dose of phenacetin would 
 mend matters for half an hour, but soon that was 
 forbidden, as it decreased the action of the heart. 
 
 She was neither allowed nor could she take nourish- 
 ment, except a little milk or beef-tea. This part of her 
 illness was terribly long and dreary. At night she sel- 
 dom slept for more than ten minutes at a time, and woke 
 up always in greater pain. 
 
 But the anguish of her body was as nothing compared 
 to the misery that Richard's silence caused her. 
 
 Why had he never answered her letters? There were 
 moments when she was seized with an insane desire to 
 rush down to the library and telephone for him. Her 
 own telephone at her bedside had, of course, been dis-
 
 378 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 connected. But she felt that if she could once get into 
 communication with him he could not resist her passion- 
 ate appeal. If he could hear her voice, would it not 
 recall to him the hours, the days of perfect bliss that 
 they had passed together? 
 
 The early mornings were horrible, for she was always 
 awake before the nurse was ready, and was told "to 
 keep quiet" and "go to sleep again." But the function 
 of sleep was exhausted. The nurse must have known 
 that there was in her no more power of sleep. 
 
 She greeted seven with relative delight, for then she 
 was allowed a little tea, and, at eight, her letters. 
 
 How she looked forward to those letters! They were 
 her one support of interest. Letters that would not 
 usually have interested her, pleased her; she welcomed 
 even bills. The turn of a phrase, the news in a letter, 
 the quiet sympathy contained in some of them gave her 
 the greatest pleasure. 
 
 She also took keen interest in the cards and inquiries 
 she received. She mentally determined that if she ever 
 recovered she would never omit to write or to inquire or to 
 send flowers to anyone who was ill. Oh, the joy of re- 
 ceiving flowers! If only a bunch of violets had come 
 from Richard, she felt that she would breathe strength 
 from their perfume. 
 
 A great many flowers came, but she was not allowed 
 to keep them in her room. They were always sent down- 
 stairs when she had seen them, and it pleased her to hear 
 that the drawing-room looked like a garden of flowers. 
 It gave her delight, pride and delight, to know that they 
 were seen by the more intimate visitors who called. 
 
 At length the pain became so intolerable that she 
 hardly had a moment's respite, and she saw that the 
 doctors were anxious.
 
 NURSES 379 
 
 They called in another specialist, a man who was 
 the greatest authority in England on the subject, and 
 whose attention it was a difficult task to obtain. He 
 rarely saw any patients except Royalty. 
 
 His arrival was a great event in the sick-room. The 
 preparations of the nurses so that they should look their 
 best were more than elaborate. Obviously the nurses 
 took pride in her having three doctors, and it seemed to 
 them it was a great credit to be nursing in so dangerous 
 and important a case. 
 
 Yet they did not seem to consider her appearance very 
 much, nor did they spare time to give her courage. The 
 great doctor sat by her side and made a thorough ex- 
 amination; the other two did the same. Without saying 
 a word, they went out of the room, leaving Onslowe- 
 Bond behind to cheer her up with a kind word of en- 
 couragement. He called her a plucky woman, and told 
 her she would soon be well. 
 
 He then went out. 
 
 The suspense of waiting was terrible. It was inter- 
 minable. Yet she felt resigned to the worst in a kind 
 of helpless way. Still, she did not give up hope entirely. 
 
 Bond returned and stated: 
 
 "Well, Sir Septimus says that if certain symptoms 
 don't appear within a week, you will gradually recover 
 without an operation. This is very good news. He has 
 ordered some things that will relieve the pain, and you are 
 to keep quiet and hope for the best." 
 
 "I am always keeping quiet," she replied plaintively. 
 
 "Yes," said the doctor, "we can't complain of you. 
 You've done very well. But the great man has known 
 a case like yours become absolutely cured by the rest 
 and the warmth and the care you are having. Be brave, 
 little lady; I have great hopes now."
 
 380 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 He smiled reassuringly, gave some directions to the 
 nurses, and then left. 
 
 She tried to elicit further information from Nurse 
 Ellis. 
 
 But she was not communicative. Still, even from 
 her she gathered that, if she had a respite for a week, 
 there was hope. 
 
 She had the greatest dread and terror of an operation, 
 and felt convinced that she would not survive it. She 
 asked the nurse if she knew of anyone who had had it. 
 
 At first Nurse Ellis scouted the notion of its being 
 required. 
 
 Now she had "known it from the first." 
 
 Then she added that people had often recovered, but 
 it was a long, tedious business. At best she would be 
 in bed for six months. 
 
 On hearing this she had an outburst of terror. 
 
 What was the good of all this suffering to end, where ? 
 
 Supposing she recovered, was it likely that the man who 
 ignored her when she was at death's door would ever 
 take any interest in her again ? 
 
 She felt that, even at the best, when she became con- 
 valescent, the sight of Richard in the street would kill 
 her. 
 
 At last the medicines ordered by the great man pro- 
 duced their effect. The pain became less poignant, 
 and she grew calmer, though the fever that night was a 
 little higher than usual from Lhc excitement of the day. 
 
 She overheard a conversation between the nurses 
 when they thought she was asleep. 
 
 Nurse Ellis said: 
 
 "I knew it was a case for an operation from the first; 
 anyone could see that. No, she won't get over it. Bless 
 you. it's a had case'"
 
 NURSES 381 
 
 Nurse Stewart replied: 
 
 "Yes, she will. You don't know anything of this sort 
 of work. But, of course, poor thing, she will be an 
 invalid for life, like Lady - ." 
 
 Then she lost the thread of the conversation. 
 
 She heard some murmured remarks, and then they 
 began to chaff each other about being "mashed" on 
 Dr. Onslowe-Bond.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 "STANDETH THE REAPER" 
 
 "May it please your lordship and gentlemen of the 
 jury 
 
 Scarcely were the words out of Richard's mouth than 
 he felt his gown tugged at from behind. Looking round 
 irritably, he found Dr. Bond at his side. 
 
 "What is it?" he whispered. But the expression on 
 the doctor's face told him what the answer was. 
 
 "You must come at once, Mr. Meyville. Mrs. Ainslie 
 is " 
 
 Hastily Richard made an apology to the judge. He 
 was unavoidably compelled to be elsewhere. His junior 
 would open the case for che defendant. 
 
 The judge hesitated. He stared curiously at the 
 waxen face of the barrister. He noted that his frame 
 was swaying to and fro. He assumed that sudden 
 illness had overtaken him. He granted the required 
 permission. 
 
 Then Richard, with his gown fluttering behind him, 
 strode rapidly from the court. He rushed at top speed 
 along the crowded corridor, scarcely noticing whether 
 Bond was following or not. Down the winding stone 
 stairs he darted until he came to the robing- room. The 
 doctor drew up breathlessly behind him. He flung off 
 his wig. The attendant, a squat, brown-bearded man, 
 took it clumsily. "I ought to congratulate you, sir," 
 he said. 
 
 Richard turned on him.
 
 "STANDETH THE REAPER" 383 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 The man, with astonished eyes, replied: 
 
 "Why, sir, on your having taken silk." 
 
 Richard made no reply. What did silk matter to him 
 now? 
 
 Forestalling the slow movements of the attendant, he 
 seized his hat. Without troubling to remove his white 
 barrister's bands, he preceded Bond through the swing 
 doors and out into the Strand. 
 
 The two entered the doctor's brougham. For some 
 minutes there was silence as they went rapidly westwards. 
 At last these words came: 
 
 "Is there any hope?" 
 
 The doctor shook his head. 
 
 Another silence. 
 
 "We shall be in time?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 Richard felt his heart beating with leaden thumps. A 
 strange sensation of guilt oppressed him. Just so did 
 the hearts of prisoners beat in the Old Bailey when they 
 were waiting for the jury to decide their fate. She might 
 be dead before he reached her. He might only be in 
 time to plant burning kisses on cold lips. Why didn't 
 Bond speak? Bond did not speak because he felt him- 
 self in the presence of a cold, callous, unsympathetic 
 nature, a man devoid of pity, incapable of emotion. 
 But Richard, in his heart, felt bitter pity for Gwendolen, 
 sinister condemnation of himself. Who was he that he 
 should sit in judgment upon her ? Who was he who, on 
 practically no evidence at all, no tangible evidence, at 
 least, should sentence her to a doom which was, perhaps, 
 a death sentence ? 
 
 An entire reaction possessed him as the brougham 
 passed between the jingling motor-omnibuses, and the
 
 384 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 chaffing cabmen. The comedy of life was going on 
 around him, and he, if he were yet in time, would be 
 playing the greatest tragedy of life. Self-condemnation 
 held him by the throat. Here was a woman, a pearl 
 among women, who had made him what he was, what 
 he was proud to be that he frankly admitted and she, 
 dying, perhaps through him. Supposing she were guilty ? 
 Hers was a crime that a lover should surely forgive. 
 Any sacrifice of honour that a woman makes for a man 
 she loves is held to bind him closer to her. If a woman 
 has given her honour to him, that man, by every code 
 of both man and woman's honour, is tied for ever to her 
 by the bond of her shame. She had given more than her 
 honour. And he had cast her aside, and left her to die 
 in misery, a solitary death. 
 
 He! Because, forsooth, he had detected an action 
 indicative of guilt, had treated her as a murderess. 
 
 He! What was he himself? His action in the affair 
 of Billy Brinstable made him, in the eyes of the law, an 
 accessory before the fact, and therefore guilty of murder. 
 If Gwendolen had actually poisoned her husband, and 
 if he knew that she had poisoned her husband, his con- 
 duct was legally that of an accessory after the fact, scarcely 
 less guilty than the murderess herself. 
 
 He, in his heart of hearts, though the law condemned 
 him not at all, was the murderer of Gwendolen. 
 
 Fool! fool! that he had been! Why did he not recog- 
 nise the great law of life that love is the greatest of all 
 laws, that infidelity is the greatest of all moral crimes. 
 Life had offered him everything, Life had given him 
 most things. But for his hideous behaviour to Gwendolen, 
 his might have been a splendid career; rich in happiness, 
 and love, and triumph. He, a King's Counsel, married 
 to the woman he loved. Shame at his conduct, indigna-
 
 "STANDETH THE REAPER" 385 
 
 tion at himself cut his reflections short. The vision of 
 the woman lying on the bed brought tears into his eyes. 
 
 With a trembling voice, as the brougham turned into 
 Green Street, he asked: 
 
 "Is she in pain?" 
 
 "Not now," was the answer. 
 
 Quickly he looked at the sphinx-like doctor sitting by 
 his side. What did those words mean? Was she now, 
 even now, beyond the reach of pain ? 
 
 Dr. Bond's head was turned away. 
 
 The sound of the wheels ceased as the brougham jolted 
 on the dirty yellow straw and drew up at the house. 
 
 Instantly the door opened, and Richard rushed in. 
 
 He was conscious of the sound of voices, women's 
 voices, in the dining-room. 
 
 Flinging his hat on the rack, he ran up the stairs, 
 Bond close at his heels. Instinctively he put his hand 
 on the knob of Gwendolen's door. The doctor motioned 
 him aside, passed by him, and very slowly and deliberately 
 opened the door of Wilfred's room. 
 
 "She has been moved here," he said as he entered. 
 "Wait a minute." 
 
 Behind the half-shut door Richard stood in an agony 
 of apprehension. 
 
 So they had moved her into Wilfred's room to die. 
 The door would open, and he would see her in her last 
 moments, lying on that bed on which from that very 
 spot he had seen her husband in his last moments. 
 
 "No, no, it can't be!" he said to himself, through 
 tightly clenched teeth. If she really had killed him, 
 she would never have allowed herself to be taken to his 
 bed to die. 
 
 Slowly the door opened, and the grave face of the 
 doctor gave him permission to enter. Though the
 
 386 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 doctor spoke no word, Richard knew he was not too 
 late. As he went into the room, he heard the rustle 
 of skirts at another door. 
 
 Then Bond went out. 
 
 They were left alone. 
 
 In the dim, pale light he saw her. Her face was a 
 white spot almost hidden by her heavy, silken hair. 
 Out of her face shone her wonderful eyes, more beautiful 
 than they had ever been, in contrast to the cold pallor 
 of her face. 
 
 A great gasp came into his throat. 
 
 Suddenly he rushed forward : 
 
 "My darling! My darling! My darling!" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed upon him; her pale lips made a 
 feeble movement. 
 
 On the white satin coverlet lay a white hand, almost 
 transparent, with blue veins standing out. 
 
 "Speak to me, speak to me!" he pleaded. 
 
 She smiled; a feeble, apathetic smile, that he strove to 
 translate into a smile of forgiveness, rippled from her lips. 
 Then, with a great effort, she whispered to him: 
 
 "Oh, my Richard! Oh, my Richard! Tell me that 
 you love me before I go!" 
 
 He covered the poor little cold hands with kisses on 
 which fell tears. 
 
 "I love you more than ever, my darling. I'm a brute, 
 and I know it. You must not leave me now. It's too 
 cruel, too cruel!" 
 
 A spasm as of surrender shook her body, and her eyes 
 closed. In the silence of the room he knelt down as one 
 only kneels at a shrine or at a death-bed. The perfume 
 of the red and white roses filled the room. Semi-con- 
 sciously he knew that the room was a bower of roses. He 
 understood that, when no power on earth could ward
 
 "STANDETH THE REAPER" 387 
 
 off death, her room was filled with the flowers of her 
 friends, and there was not a single flower that had 
 come from him. 
 
 Passionately he kissed her hand again, not knowing 
 whether she felt or no. 
 
 Then, to his great joy, the eyes opened again, and, mir- 
 acle of miracles, she spoke. 
 
 Her voice seemed a little stronger now. Evidently she 
 had nerved herself for a great effort, so that in her last 
 message her lips should be under control of her brain. 
 
 "I have made my will, darling." 
 
 He grasped her hand, as though to compel her to avoid 
 the topic. For that one moment, at least, he was not an 
 egotist. 
 
 But firmly she continued: "I have left you everything, 
 dearest. I hope you will be happy." 
 
 "Happy!" he echoed hopelessly. 
 
 "Yes, very happy," she answered. "Let there be always 
 roses when there can be roses over my grave. Roses 
 scarlet and white." 
 
 Her lips broke into a smile of complete contentment. 
 Her other hand beckoned to him. She had not the strength 
 to draw him towards her. 
 
 He bent over her, his face only a few inches from hers, 
 the face of a man, who should be great, peering into the 
 face of a woman who had achieved his greatness. 
 
 Whether the music was of this earth or not he scarcely 
 knew. It was soft and sweet and miraculous: 
 
 "Here in my Garden of Roses 
 Roses are scarlet and white" 
 
 Then the song ceased. 
 
 By the movement of her lips he followed the words.
 
 388 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 Just as clearly as she, when in the triumph of her beauty, 
 her health, and her happiness had sung the song, just so 
 clearly did he hear the words: 
 
 "His scythe shall reap no harvest 
 Sown in the -fields of green 
 The reaper hath marked for his reaping 
 My Lady Gwendolen" 
 
 The lips fluttered like butterflies' wings, and then were 
 still. 
 
 He threw himself upon her in a paroxysm of fear. 
 
 "Come back to me, oh, my darling! Can't my lips 
 bring you back from death? Speak to me, Gwendolen, 
 speak to me! You can't leave me alone like this!" 
 
 But the lips were closed and the eyes were open. 
 
 And he knew.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE SUMMING-UP 
 
 HARDLY heeding the words of his manservant, Richard 
 staggered into the sitting-room of his flat. 
 
 \\iih g/assy eyes he gazed vaguely at his brother, who 
 was sitting in a chair waiting for him. Montague was 
 the last man he would have desired to see at such a time. 
 
 He flung himself into a chair. His haggard appearance 
 aroused even the eminent actor out of self-absorption. 
 
 "Dick, you're looking ill. Have a whisky-and-soda; 
 I've just had one." 
 
 "Brandy." 
 
 Montague poured him out a quantity. 
 
 "More!" 
 
 Richard drank down half a tumblerful. The glass 
 dropped to the floor. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 Richard did not answer. 
 
 Montague pulled out his watch. 
 
 "I've been waiting for you twenty minutes. I must be 
 off at once. But I want to speak to you seriously." 
 
 The other opened his half -closed eyes. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I am in a very awkward position, Dick. Something 
 must be done, and I don't know what to do. Are you 
 listening?" 
 
 "I'm listening." 
 
 " This is the turning point of my career. " He shrugged 
 his shoulders and added, with a half -cynical laugh.
 
 390 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 "But I've no money to turn with. My backers are sick 
 of going on. We have been losing money for a long time. 
 Still, if I can tide over things now, I've got the most splen- 
 did advertisement any actor ever had. What do you 
 think I've done?" he continued proudly. 
 
 Richard hazarded no guess. 
 
 "This morning I was secretly married to Lady Pamela 
 1'Estocq." 
 
 Richard's eyelids blinked; he displayed no emotion. 
 He was so deeply sunk in sorrow that he scarcely realised 
 the presence of his brother. 
 
 "Do you understand what that means?" asked Mon- 
 tague, drawing himself to his full height and walking up 
 and down the room. "I have married the daughter of a 
 peer. No other actor has ever done that. Numbers of 
 actresses have married peers. But I am the first actor to 
 marry a peer's daughter. I shall certainly get my knight- 
 hood." Then he stood, looking down at his brother's 
 prostrate form. "If I can't get ten thousand pounds 
 this week I shall be turned neck and crop out of my 
 theatre." 
 
 Richard brought his mind back from the bedside of 
 Gwendolen, and looked up at Montague. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he answered. 
 
 Montague persisted. 
 
 "It would be a very good investment, you see, because 
 the next piece is sure to be a success. My marriage is 
 bound to be an excellent advertisement. Whether Lash- 
 bridge gives his consent or not, it is sure to boom the 
 piece. And I want you to use your influence with Lash- 
 bridge to get his consent. Now, what do you say, Dick ? 
 Surely you know of somebody who would like to back me ? 
 Some of your clients?" 
 
 With a weary movement of the hand, which amounted
 
 THE SUMMING-UP 391 
 
 almost to motioning his brother towards the door, Rich- 
 ard replied: 
 
 "I know of nobody." 
 
 Montague argued: 
 
 "Think, think, think, Dick! Pull yourself together. 
 You're the most absent-minded man I ever knew. Why, 
 you've come from the Law Courts in your bands!" 
 
 "I can't think, Montague, of anything. At least, I've 
 got something else to think of. This is not the moment 
 for me to raise money for masquerades." 
 
 The actor's presence hurt him hideously, and he rose 
 from the sofa as though to end the interview. 
 
 But Montague was not to be denied. He put his 
 hand on Richard's shoulder. 
 
 "Dick, you don't know the worst. A lot of money 
 that was lost over my last piece was my mother's our 
 mother's. She can't afford to lose it." 
 
 Bitterly Richard answered: 
 
 "You should have thought of that before you gave her 
 the opportunity. But she shall not lose it," he went on. 
 "I will refund whatever she has lost." 
 
 "That is very good of you, Dick very noble. But, 
 for the sake of the family, I assume you will not allow me 
 to be turned out of my theatre. Look at the ignominy of 
 it! It would be the end of me. I should be driven into 
 the provinces. And you know I have never been appre- 
 ciated properly in the provinces or in America. I am 
 essentially a fashionable actor. I thought, perhaps, that 
 Mrs. Ainslie might be willing might 
 
 With a great effort Richard compelled himself to say in 
 a low voice: 
 
 "Mrs. Ainslie is dead!" 
 
 Here was the final blow to Montague's hopes. In 
 the presence of this extraordinary calamity the brothers
 
 392 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE 
 
 became brothers. The theatrical in both their natures 
 was swept away. 
 
 Montague took his brother by the hand. For a minute 
 neither spoke. 
 
 Richard felt an overmastering desire to unbosom him- 
 self. The pent-up anguish of the last few days demanded 
 expression. To whom could he unbosom himself to 
 whom could he confess if not his brother? 
 
 Slowly he told him the story of the tragedy. Though 
 occasionally stifled by his sobs, he described how im- 
 petuously, on the flimsiest of evidence 
 
 He described the agony that would haunt him through- 
 out his life. 
 
 When he had finished, his eyes were dry of tears, but 
 his face was very grey. 
 
 The actor had listened spellbound. 
 
 "A very strange story, " he reflected. "Pity it wouldn't 
 make a play!"
 
 2835 MAYFAIR 
 
 BY 
 
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