“I dare say you’d like me to go,” I said to the Colonel, getting up.
“I suppose you’ve heard that blackguard has deserted her,” he cried explosively.
I hesitated.
“You know how people gossip,” I answered. “I was vaguely told that something was wrong.”
“He’s bolted. He’s gone off to Paris with a woman. He’s left Amy without a penny.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
The Colonel gulped down his whisky. He was a tall, lean man of fifty, with a drooping moustache and grey hair. He had pale blue eyes and a weak mouth. I remembered from my previous meeting with him that he had a foolish face, and was proud of the fact that for the ten years before he left the army he had played polo three days a week.
“I don’t suppose Mrs. Strickland wants to be bothered with me just now,” I said. “Will you tell her how sorry I am? If there’s anything I can do. I shall be delighted to do it.”
He took no notice of me.
“I don’t know what’s to become of her. And then there are the children. Are they going to live on air? Seventeen years.”
“What about seventeen years?”
“They’ve been married,” he snapped. “I never liked him. Of course he was my brother-in-law, and I made the best of it. Did you think him a gentleman? She ought never to have married him.”
“Is it absolutely final?”
“There’s only one thing for her to do, and that’s to divorce him. That’s what I was telling her when you came in. ‘Fire in with your petition, my dear Amy,’ I said. ‘You owe it to yourself and you owe it to the children.’ He’d better not let me catch sight of him. I’d thrash him within an inch of his life.”
I could not help thinking that Colonel MacAndrew might have some difficulty in doing this, since Strickland had struck me as a hefty fellow, but I did not say anything. It is always distressing when outraged morality does not possess the strength of arm to administer direct chastisement on the sinner. I was making up my mind to another attempt at going when Mrs. Strickland came back. She had dried her eyes and powdered her nose.
“I’m sorry I broke down,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t go away.”
She sat down. I did not at all know what to say. I felt a certain shyness at referring to matters which were no concern of mine. I did not then know the besetting sin of woman, the passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who is willing to listen. Mrs. Strickland seemed to make an effort over herself.
“Are people talking about it?” she asked.
I was taken aback by her assumption that I knew all about her domestic misfortune.
“I’ve only just come back. The only person I’ve seen is Rose Waterford.”
Mrs. Strickland clasped her hands.
“Tell me exactly what she said.” And when I hesitated, she insisted. “I particularly want to know.”
“You know the way people talk. She’s not very reliable, is she? She said your husband had left you.”
“Is that all?”
I did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford’s parting reference to a girl from a tea shop. I lied.
“She didn’t say anything about his going with anyone?”
“No.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
I was a little puzzled, but at all events I understood that I might now take my leave. When I shook hands with Mrs. Strickland I told her that if I could be of any use to her I should be very glad. She smiled wanly.
“Thank you so much. I don’t know that anybody can do anything for me.”
Too shy to express my sympathy, I turned to say goodbye to the Colonel. He did not take my hand.
“I’m just coming. If you’re walking up Victoria Street, I’ll come along with you.”
“All right,” I said. “Come on.”
IX
“This is a terrible thing,” he said, the moment we got out into the street.
I realised that he had come away with me in order to discuss once more what he had been already discussing for hours with his sister-in-law.
“We don’t know who the woman is, you know,” he said. “All we know is that the blackguard’s gone to Paris.”
“I thought they got on so well.”
“So they did. Why, just before you came in Amy said they’d never had a quarrel in the whole of their married life. You know Amy. There never was a better woman in the world.”
Since these confidences were thrust on me, I saw no harm in asking a few questions.
“But do you mean to say she suspected nothing?”
“Nothing. He spent August with her and the children in Norfolk. He was just the same as he’d always been. We went down for two or three days, my wife and I, and I played golf with him. He came back to town in September to let his partner go away, and Amy stayed on in the country. They’d taken a house for six weeks, and at the end of her tenancy she wrote to tell him on which day she was arriving in London. He answered from Paris. He said he’d made up his mind not to live with her any more.”
“What explanation did he give?”
“My dear fellow, he gave no explanation. I’ve seen the letter. It wasn’t more than ten lines.”
“But that’s extraordinary.”
We happened then to cross the street, and the traffic prevented us from speaking. What Colonel MacAndrew had told me seemed very improbable, and I suspected that Mrs. Strickland, for reasons of her own, had concealed from him some part of the facts. It was clear that a man after seventeen years of wedlock did not leave his wife without certain occurrences which must have led her to suspect that all was not well with their married life. The Colonel caught me up.
“Of course, there was no explanation he could give except
