but if you'll step inside, I'll see if he's engaged."
She stepped inside to find herself in an apartment in which there were several other young gentlemen, of somewhat riper years; one and all of whom, she immediately became conscious, began to take the liveliest interest in her. Soon there appeared a grey-haired man, who held a pair of spectacles between the fingers of his right hand.
"May I ask what your name is? and what is the nature of the business on which you wish to see Mr Whitcomb?"
"I have already explained that my name doesn't matter. And I can only state my business to Mr Whitcomb himself." Then she added, as if struck by the look of doubt in the grey-haired man's face, "Pray don't imagine that I am here to beg for subscriptions to a charity or any nonsense of that kind. I wish to see Mr Whitcomb about something very important."
The grey-headed man smiled faintly, apparently amused by something in the caller's manner, or appearance. Departing whence he came he almost immediately reappeared, and beckoned to her with his hand.
"Mr Whitcomb is very much engaged, but he will manage to spare you five minutes."
"I daresay I sha'n't want to keep him longer."
She found herself in a spacious room, which was principally furnished, as it seemed to her, with books. At a table, which was almost entirely covered with books, both open and shut, stood a tall man, with snow-white hair, who bowed to her as she entered.
"You wish to see me?"
"You are Mr Whitcomb?"
"That is my name. How can I serve you?"
She seated herself on the chair towards which he pointed. Each looked at the other for some seconds, in silence. Then she spoke.
"I want you to tell me on what grounds a wife can obtain a divorce from her husband."
Mr Whitcomb raised his eyebrows and smiled.
"I think, madam, that it may have been a solicitor you wanted. I, unfortunately, am only a barrister. I fear you have made a mistake."
"I have not made a mistake; how have I made a mistake? I saw in a paper the other day that you were the greatest living authority on the law of marriage."
"It was very good of the paper to say so. Since I am indebted for your presence here to so handsome a compliment, I will waive the point of etiquette and inform you-of what you, surely, must be already aware-that the grounds on which a divorce may be obtained are various."
"I know that; that isn't what I mean. What I specially want to know is this-can a woman get a divorce from her husband because he gets sent to prison?"
"Because he gets sent to prison? For doing what?"
"For-for swindling; because he's a scoundrel."
Mr Whitcomb's eyebrows went up again.
"The idea that a marriage may be dissolved because one of the parties is guilty of felony, and is consequently sentenced to a term of imprisonment, is a novel one to me."
"Not if a girl finds out that the man who has married her is a villain and a thief? A thief, mind."
He shook his head.
"I find that that would be no ground for dissolution."
"Are you sure?"
"My dear young lady, you were good enough to say that some paper or other credited me with a knowledge of the laws dealing with the subject of marriage. I can assure you that on that point there is no doubt whatever."
"Is that so?" The girl's lips were tightly compressed, her brows knit. "Then there are no means whatever by which a wife can be rid of a husband whom she discovers to be a rogue and a rascal?"
"Not merely because he is a rogue and a rascal; except by the act of God."
"What do you mean by the act of God?"
"If, for example, he should die."
"If he should die? I see! There is no way by which she can be released from him except by-death. Thank you, that is all I wanted to know."
She laid on his table what, to his surprise, he perceived to be a twenty-pound note.
"My dear young lady, what is this?"
"That is your fee. I don't want to occupy your time or obtain information from you for nothing."
"But you have done neither. Permit me to return you this. That is not the way in which I do business; in this instance, the honour of having been consulted by you is a sufficient payment. Before you go, however, let me give a piece of really valuable advice. If you have a friend who is in any matrimonial trouble, persuade her to see a respectable solicitor at once, and to place the whole facts before him unreservedly. He may be able to show her a way out of her difficulty which would never have occurred to her."
He commented-inwardly-on his visitor, after her departure.
"That's either a very simple-minded young woman or a most unusual character. Fancy her coming to me with such an inquiry! She has got herself into some matrimonial mess, most probably, without the cognisance of her friends. Unless I am mistaken she is the kind of young woman who, if she has made up her mind to get out of it, will get out of it; if not by fair means, then- though I hope not! – by foul."
CHAPTER VII
MR MORICE PRESUMES
One day a desire seized Miss Arnott to revisit the place where she had first met Mr Morice. She had not been there since. That memorable encounter had spoilt it for her. It had been her custom to wander there nearly every fine day. But, since it had been defiled by such a memory, for her, its charm had fled.
Still, as the weeks went by, it dawned upon her by degrees, that, after all, there was no substantial reason why she should turn her back on it for ever. It was a delightful spot; so secluded, so suited to solitary meditation.
"I certainly do not intend," she told herself, "to allow that man" – with an accent on the "that" – "to prevent my occasionally visiting one of the prettiest parts of my own property. It would be mere affectation on my part to pretend that the place will ever be to me the same again; but that is no reason why I should never take a walk in that direction."
It was pleasant weather, sunny, not too warm and little wind. Just the weather for a woodland stroll, and, also, just the weather for a motor ride. That latter fact was particularly present to her mind, because she happened to be undergoing one of those little experiences which temper an automobilist's joys. The machine was in hospital. She had intended to go for a long run to-day, but yesterday something had all at once gone wrong with the differential, the clutch, the bevel gear or something or other. She herself did not quite know what, or, apparently, anyone else either. As a result, the car, instead of flying with her over the sun-lit roads, was being overhauled by the nearest local experts.
That was bad enough. But what almost made it worse was the additional fact that Hugh Morice's car was flying over the aforesaid country roads with him. That her car should have broken down, though ever so slightly, and his should not-that altogether inferior article, of which he was continually boasting in the most absurd manner-was gall and wormwood.
The accident, which had rendered her own car for the
