“He wrote that last night,” said Katharine. “That means he’s got off
with Madrigal Chicele. And——”
“He doesn’t say so,” said Forsyth, turning the letter about.
“I know. But it does. You can take it from me. Listen. Giles doesn’t
love her, really. Not yet, at any rate. He still loves me. But now that
he thinks I don’t care, she—she’ll just romp home.”
“Why should he think that?”
“I told him I didn’t,” cried Katharine. “In so many words.”
Forsyth put a hand to his head.
“But if you do care, why did you——”
“Because I cared so much that I couldn’t go on.”
“Sit down, won’t you?” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “I can’t give
you long, for I’ve got someone waiting upstairs. But——”
“For God’s sake,” wailed Katharine, “don’t rush me. As it is, I’m beside
myself. And if you——”
“Now, please go quietly,” said Forsyth. “I’m going to state the facts.
Correct me if I go wrong. Little dreaming that your husband had written
this letter to you, you gave him to understand that, so far as you were
concerned, he was free to place his affections where he pleased.”
“Quite right.”
“That you did in the hope of bringing him to your feet.”
“Yes. It sounds insane, but women are funny like that.”
“Your immediate fear is that, in view of the attachment which you say
his letter discloses, your rash communication will have the opposite
effect and drive him into a certain lady’s arms.”
“Exactly,” said Katharine. “You’ve got a magician’s brain, but let that
pass. What, in Heaven’s name, Mr. Forsyth, am I to do?”
“I think you must wait,” said Forsyth.
“_Wait?_”
The lawyer nodded.
“You must wait for him to move.”
“But he’s _moving_,” screamed Katharine. “He’s moving into her arms.
It’s more than a million to one he’s with her now.”
“I hardly think——”
“Of course he is. And yet you tell me to wait!” Mrs. Festival threw back
her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. “What d’you think I’ve been
doing for the last three months? I’ll tell you. I’ve been waiting.
Waiting, waiting, waiting for Giles to come back. Waiting, with a jest
on my tongue and a picture-postcard smile. Watching other women rushing
after my husband, biting and scratching and lying to catch his eye,
cadging seats in his car, eating out of his hand. . . . Once a week he’s
come to our house as a guest. Once a week we’ve met across our own table
and been polite—_polite_! The last two or three times I thought his
manner seemed strained, as if he was upset about something. But I never
dreamed. . . .” Her lips were trembling, and she stopped. The next
moment she had herself in hand. “I tell you,” she cried, “I’ve stood up
and grinned and borne it, till I can’t endure any more. I wrote that
wretched note in desperation. I thought . . . I hoped. . . . And now you
tell me to wait!”
“As you and your husband’s trustee,” said Forsyth faithfully, “I say
that you can do nothing. You’ve covenanted not to molest.”
“Oh, blow what I covenanted. I’m not going to be bound by any rotten
papers. Besides, I never read it.”
“You signed it,” said Forsyth mercilessly, getting upon his feet.
“Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “you told me to come to you if I was in
trouble. Don’t send me empty away.”
“I must see these people,” said Forsyth. “You stay where you are. I’m
sorry I had no time to get any flowers, but you were rather precipitate.
I’ll tell you what,” he added, as if voicing an afterthought. “Would you
like to speak to your husband while I’m upstairs? You know. Just ring up
casually, by way of clearing the air?”
“He’s sure to be out,” said Katharine. “With Mad——”
“We can but try,” said Forsyth. “Of course, if you’ld rather not . . .”
“I’ld love to,” said Katharine. “I don’t know what on earth I can say,
but——”
“The time will provide the words,” said Forsyth, and left the
room. . . .
He found Giles pacing the floor like a caged beast.
“While I’ve been away,” he said quickly, “I’ve had an idea.”
“Go on,” said Giles, moistening his lips. “Go on.”
“Would you like to ring your wife up?”
Captain Festival reflected.