"
Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! This
was enough, you'll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground
swiftly. That fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord
with my meditative temperament. No wonder that I had but a qualified
liking for him. I said with just a suspicion of jeering tone:
"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we
were engaged in."
He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of
anger positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. "Farce be hanged! She
has bolted with my wife's brother, Captain Anthony." This outburst was
followed by complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he added from
force of habit: "The son of the poet, you know."
A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of
varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest
of course was revived.
"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion or
does she actually say that . . . "
"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory tones.
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