"As to the poor misguided lad," he said firmly, "you need feel no sympathy. He had behaved disgracefully."
"How?" she asked.
"Well, you see, he had already fallen in love with her and that made his offence all the greater. If you go red I cannot tell you this story, because it embarrasses me."
"I haven't gone red," she denied indignantly. "So what are you—what is he going to do?"
Beale shrugged his shoulders.
"He is going to work for a divorce."
"But why?" she demanded. "What has she done?"
He looked at her in astonishment.
"What do you mean?" he stammered.
"Well"—she shrugged her shoulders slightly and smiled in his face—"it seems to me that it is nothing to do with him. It is the wretched female who should sue for a divorce, not the handsome detective—do you feel faint?"
"No," he said hoarsely.
"Don't you agree with me?"
"I agree with you," said the incoherent Beale. "But suppose her guardian takes the necessary steps?"
She shook her head.
"The guardian can do nothing unless the wretched female instructs him," she said. "Does it occur to you that even the best of drugs wear off in time and that there is a possibility that the lady was not as unconscious of the ceremony as she pretends? Of course," she said hurriedly, "she did not realize that it had actually happened, and until she was told by Apollo from the Central Office—that's what you call Scotland Yard in New York, isn't it?—that the ceremony had actually occurred she was under the impression that it was a beautiful dream—when I say beautiful," she amended, in some hurry, "I mean not unpleasant."
"Then what am I to do?" said the helpless Beale.
"Wait till I divorce you," said Oliva, and turned her head hurriedly, so that Beale only kissed the tip of her ear.
THE END
