MR. WYNNE MAKES A STATEMENT.
When the play was over the Wynnes prudently waited, and were almost the
last to leave. But, even so, when they passed through the lobbies, a
good many people were still to be seen. They were a rather remarkable
couple, and although Madeline had drawn her lace scarf well over her
head, it was of no avail. On the stairs she came face to face with Lord
Tony.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he accosted her. “I did not know you were
coming here to-night. Rachel told me she lunched with you to-day, and
you were alone in your glory. Whom did you come with?” And he looked as
if he was expecting to see some of the party.
“I came in very good company,” she replied. “But, pray, who made _you_
my father confessor?”
“I only wish I was! Are you going on to supper at the Candy-tufts? If
so, we shall meet again.”
“No, I’m going home this moment.”
“How virtuous! Well, you’ll be in the Row to-morrow--riding--at the
usual hour?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll look out for you about ten. Good night.” And he hurried off.
“Who is that?” inquired Laurence.
“Oh, a great friend of papa’s--Lord Anthony Foster.”
“Indeed! I shouldn’t have thought they had many tastes in common.”
“Well, at any rate they have _one_,” she answered, with a flippant
laugh.
“Yes, dense as I am, I think I can guess it!”
Mr. Wynne was also recognized by several of his own friends. Why is
it that there is always some one to see you when you wish to escape
notice, and, when you particularly desire to court observation, there
is never any one forthcoming?
No; and yet if you lose a front tooth, and, with a gaping chasm in
your neat front row, are _en route_ to the dentist, you are bound to
encounter half your acquaintances.
Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were standing on the steps as their
friend passed, and wished him a cheerful good night.
He did not accompany Madeline; she would not permit it. She must get
home at once, before her father returned, she whispered; “and supposing
she were seen driving up, escorted by a gentleman, a stranger!”
“All right, all right, Maddie,” wringing her hand. “But, mind you, it
is the last time. Remember, to-morrow! Send me a wire, and I shall come
and fetch you.”
Then, with a gesture of farewell, he stepped back, and she was quickly
whirled away.
Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were still endeavouring to light up,
and had not yet started to walk; the night was fine and frosty, and
they had not far to go.
“I’m coming your way. Hold on a minute till I get out my cigar-case,”
said their late host. And soon the trio were facing homewards,
discussing the piece, the actresses, the audience; but not a word
dropped from either gentleman’s lips with regard to Wynne’s mysterious
lady friend, though, like the celebrated parrot, they thought the more.
Wynne was a reserved sort of chap. For nearly a year he had dropped
out of their ken. Jessop alone was his confidential friend. None ever
dreamt of poking their noses into his affairs, as a caustic reply, or
a painful snub was sure to be the reward of the experiment. He was
of good family--that they knew; and latterly some of his influential
relations had been looking him up. (Nothing succeeds like success, and
the brilliant author of society skits was now eagerly claimed by his
connections.)
Nevertheless, they were exceedingly anxious to know more respecting
Miss West, the gay vivacious beauty, whose fame had spread far and
wide, whose riches and whose disheartening indifference to the advances
of the most eligible _partis_ were alike proverbial.
What on earth had she to do with a hard-working barrister like Wynne,
who rarely mixed in society? They asked each other this question after
they had left Wynne and his client _tête-à-tête_. “Business?”
It was confoundedly odd that she should pitch on such an hour, and on
such an uncommonly handsome fellow as Wynne for her legal adviser;
and the funniest part of it all was, that Wynne was not particularly
pleased to see her, and treated her as coolly as if she had been his
grand-aunt by marriage! Talking of matters far different from their
inmost thoughts brought the trio to Mr. Treherne’s chambers.
“Come up, you fellows, and have some devilled bones,” he said
hospitably; “the night is young!”
Mr. FitzHerbert never turned a deaf ear to such an appeal, but Wynne on
this occasion, rather to his friend’s surprise, said, “All right, I’ll
come up for a minute,” and sprang up the stairs two steps at a time.
“I’m not going to stay,” he said, taking off his hat and standing with
his back to the fire, still in his top coat; “but I’ve just wished
to have a word with you two fellows. I want to ask you, as a special
favour to _me_, to say nothing to any one of having met Miss West in my
chambers.”
The two guests muttered, “Oh, of course not; certainly not;” but
without any great alacrity. This demand was decidedly a blow, for they
were only human, and were looking forward to describing the scene with
pleasurable anticipation.
“When I ask you to do me this favour,” he resumed, as coolly as if
he were speaking in court, “I think it only fair to take you into my
confidence, and to tell you our secret. Miss West and I were married
nearly two years ago. _She is my wife._”
And putting on his hat, he nodded good night with the utmost
_sangfroid_, and ere they could get out one single syllable, much less
question, he was already at the bottom of the last flight of stairs.