“On my word of honour, there was not the very slightest attachment or understanding of any kind between Mrs. Harrison and Jack Munting. They rather disliked each other, if anything. Jack was married last Easter to a very charming woman, with whom he is much in love. He never gave a thought to Mrs. Harrison, or she to him.”
I felt sure he believed what he said.
“Wasn’t there a disturbance of some kind?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” A cloud passed over his face. “There was. That wretched potty woman, Miss Milsom, invented some sort of story. But it was the most absolute rubbish. And Mr. Harrison came to see what utter nonsense it all was. My dear man, the woman’s in an asylum.”
“There was no foundation for it, then?”
“None whatever.”
“Then why did your friend Munting take it lying down, and let himself be kicked out of the house?”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him ‘my friend Munting,’ as if you took us for a pair of undesirables,” he retorted, irritably. He picked at his eggs and bacon, and pushed the plate away again.
“What else could he do but go? Your father was perfectly unreasonable—wouldn’t have listened to the Archangel Gabriel. Anyway, the more you protest about these matters, the less you’re believed. Munting did the right thing—cleared out and married somebody else. Couldn’t have a row with a man twice his age, you know.”
I got up.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Lathom. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I am very glad to have your assurance. Mr. Munting is in town, I