As he held up the capture at arm's length, I gave a sudden start.
At last I had found a means at hand to make five thousand pounds, which just then was being dangled in front of me by Sir Walter Michelcombe. He was an immensely wealthy man, as you know, old chap, middle-aged, tall and handsome, and with a charming, pretty little wife.
But here was the trouble.
Michelcombe told me the whole thing in my house one night, being at the time very talkative and off his guard.
He put it down to the whisky.
It seems that he had fallen desperately in love with an actress in London, but she, knowing he was married, would have nothing to say to him.
This rejection only inflamed him the more, and he openly said in my room that night—meaning what he said, too—that he would give five thousand to be rid of his wife.
I laughingly said. "How long do you give me to do this for you?"
"A month—not a day longer."
"Very well." I jotted down a few words on an envelope and said, "Will you sign this?"
