I then questioned Margaret. She was, naturally, very much upset, but thought that Miss Milsom was completely mistaken, and making a mountain out of a molehill. She is too innocent to see—what I, of course, saw very plainly—that this shameless attack was directed against herself and not against Miss Milsom. I did not suggest this to her (not wishing to alarm her), and promised to hear Munting’s version of the affair before taking any further steps.
I then interviewed Munting. He took the thing in the worst possible way—with a cool effrontery which roused me to the highest pitch of indignation—treated the whole matter as a triviality, and positively laughed in my face. “The woman is demented,” he said, “I assure you my tastes do not lie in that direction.” “I never supposed they did,” I answered, and made quite clear to him what my suspicions were. He laughed again, and said I was mistaken. I said I knew very well that I was not mistaken, and asked him what other explanation he could offer of being found outside my wife’s door in the middle of the night. “You have heard the explanation,” said he, airily. “And a very convincing one it is,” said I; “at least, you don’t deny that you were there, I suppose?” He said, “Would you believe me if I did deny it?” I said that his manner had convinced me that the story was true, and that nothing he said would persuade me to the contrary. “Then it’s not an atom of use my denying it, is it?” said he coolly. “Not an atom,” I said. “Will you leave the house straight away or wait to be kicked out?” “If you put it that way,” said he, “I think it would cause less excitement in the neighbourhood if I went of my own accord.” I gave him half an hour to be out of the house, and he said that would suit him very well, and had the impudence to request the use of our telephone to order a taxi. I told him I would not have him in our part of the house on any pretence whatever. “Oh,” said he, “then perhaps you would be good enough to order the taxi yourself.” I did so, in order to give him no excuse for hanging about the place, and he took himself off. On the way downstairs he said, in a more subdued tone, “Look here, Harrison. Won’t you believe that this is all a mistake?” I told him to get out of the house before I sent for the police, and he went without another word.
All this has upset us very much. I am only thankful that no further harm has come of it. Margaret says he had never previously offered her any rudeness, and I believe her; but, looking back on the matter, I can remember occasions when I have not altogether cared for the tone of his conversation. He is too experienced a man in this kind of thing, however, to have shown his hand while I was there. I am only sorry that our friendship with young Lathom, whom we all like so much, should have led to this unpleasantness.
Lathom is extremely distressed, as you may imagine. I thought it well to warn him to show more discretion in future with regard to his choice of friends. He was too genuinely horrified and unhappy to wish to talk about the matter; still, I think he was grateful for the advice. Unhappily, this means that we shall lose him as well, since his means do not permit of his keeping on the upper maisonnette by himself. I suggested that he might stay till the end of the quarter, but he said that he was engaged to visit some friends next month, and would be leaving anyway at the end of the week.
This incident has made it very clear to me that Miss Milsom must be got rid of. She is in a state of violent hysteria, and is obviously subject to delusions about herself, and in no way a fit companion for Margaret. I have given her a month’s salary in lieu of notice, and sent her home. Out of all this hateful episode this one good thing has come: that I have now a valid reason for insisting on this woman’s departure.
Other news has been rather overshadowed by these anxieties, and must wait till my next letter. I hope all
